


Great Distraction

by Saturn_the_Almighty



Series: Royalty AU [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Royalty, An attempt at action scenes, Canon-typical swearing, Detailed descriptions of clothing, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Everyone makes an appearance in some way, Grif and Simmons are Locus' adoptive dads, Hidden Blades, Hurt/Comfort, Hurt™, I love Sarge's boot dagger apparently, I tweaked their ages, I'll tag a character if they have dialogue or will be important later, Illustrated, Knight Sarge, Late Night Interrogation, Love Confessions, M/M, Minor Blood and Gore, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, Mutual Pining, One sided Lolix, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Multiple, Plot, Plot Twists, Prince Locus, Prince/Knight AU, Rating May Change, Sam is stubborn, Sarge gets frustrated, Secret Crush, Self-Indulgent, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow To Update, Sort of? - Freeform, Tags May Change, They aren't enemies per se, Warnings May Change, anxiety™, fuck it, inconsistent updates, it finally happened, never thought i'd use that tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-03-07 02:09:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 34,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13424478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saturn_the_Almighty/pseuds/Saturn_the_Almighty
Summary: Prince Samuel doesn't think he needs a personal knight. He can take care of himself. But his parents are concerned for his safety so he's stuck with a proud man who calls himself 'Sarge' and has the most beautiful blue eyes Sam has ever seen. And when his past comes to haunt him, he's glad Sarge is there.





	1. Intro

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sxpaiscia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sxpaiscia/gifts).



> I got impatient and had to post this IMMEDIATELY. Yes yes, I know I already have two series going on, and I'm not going abandon either of them. Updates will be positively snail-like, however, so you'll have to forgive my ambition.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this little teaser/intro.

**_Intro_ **

 

Things can fall into a routine quite easily. You get up, you go about your day doing much the same, and you fall asleep telling yourself that tomorrow you'll do something different. When there's no danger, no excitement, no distraction to pull you away from the monotony... Routine is all you know. So if you're suddenly faced with ghosts of your past and the prospect of death is much more real than it's ever been, will you miss the monotony? Will you miss the routine?


	2. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Samuel wasn't always Prince Samuel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam's early life. There's some blood, some violence and a shitty fight scene.

The kingdom of Blood Gulch, situated in a canyon in the middle of nowhere, was ruled by two kings. King Dexter Grif, whose laid-back nature and seemingly infinite appetite was the envy of all and his husband Richard Simmons, a tall and thin man with striking ginger hair and a surprisingly stubborn attitude. They gave their kingdom everything it needed, they ruled fairly and kindly, they stayed out of conflicts. Some would say they were the ideal rulers. The only problem was that they bickered with each other nonstop. Anyone who was close with them knew it didn't mean anything. They still loved one another.

Once, their bickering reached a new height. Simmons had mentioned the prospect of an heir, noting that they were both getting old. Grif countered with a strong argument about rumors that were sure to spread to the neighboring king and queendoms. It escalated, neither wanted to back down, both sticking with their convictions. It was the most intimidating game of chicken their royal court had veer witnessed.

Eventually, after a month-long stalemate, king Grif admitted defeat and took his husband to adopt a child.

In the months following, their royal court saw a lot of their son. He resembled Grif more closely, with dark skin and hair, but they could all tell he would have Simmons' height. His name was Samuel and he came from somewhere else. That was what he told everyone who asked. He was young when they first brought him to the palace, quiet too. He liked to keep to himself most of the time. Simmons fretted over him like a mother hen, always hovering until Grif pulled him aside and forced him to stop.

Years passed and Samuel grew into a strong young man. He learned about math. He learned about the stars, going out every night to peer through the telescope with Simmons. He learned about plants, which ones were safe to eat or cook. He started venturing out more, past the palace gates and into the city. He liked to collect all sorts of plants and hang them by colored strings from the beams in his room to dry and make into teas and things. Once, he met a boy in the city. The boy recognized Samuel as a friend from long ago, when they were both still in the orphanage.

"Hey, I know you!" The boy shouted, running up to Sam and placing a hand on his shoulder like it was a familiar gesture. He was wearing a brightly colored orange scarf around his neck. "Sam, how are you? Who're your new parents?" The boy asked him. Sam took a moment to rack his memory and remember the boy. "Felix," he muttered, remembering his name. Felix nodded, flashing Sam a grin that was all teeth. 'His name is like a cat, but he's more of a fox,' Sam thought. Felix kept his hand on Sam's shoulder, still waiting for his response. "Well, who're your new parents?" he asked again, more impatiently.

Sam nudged his head in the direction on the palace. "The kings," he said easily, as if it was a common thing, to be the son of the kings. Felix's hand clenched around Sam's shoulder. His grin fell. "Oh," he said, the single word falling from his mouth laced with venom. He made a show of lifting his hand from Sam's shoulder. "I see," he spat. "Goody for you." Felix turned on his heel and walked away, trying to hold himself high and seem more dignified. Sam didn't see much if Felix for a while, although he swore on more than one occasion the he glimpsed the bright orange scarf out of the corner of his eye.

* * *

 

Sam asked for self-defense lessons after his first meeting with Felix. Even though he didn't remember him much, Sam could tell he had changed. Something didn't sit right. He was better off with the skills to protect himself, although, if he was being honest, it was more for king Simmons' benefit. Sam didn't like to imagine his reaction if he got hurt. There would most likely be a lot of tears. And quite a bit of scolding. His voice would pitch up and go all squeaky. Sam didn't like when that happened.

There was a huge forest that sprawled out behind the palace. Sam didn't go to the forest often. He would usually go to the fields on the outskirts of the city, finding everything he needed for his teas there. King Grif loved his teas. He loved the herbal ones that helped ease his stress. He loved the floral ones that tasted like springtime. He loved the honey and ginger tea that Sam made for him on his birthday. Thus, Sam was trudging through the forest to find a beehive.

"Well hello there, _Prince Samuel_ ," a familiar voice purred. Sam turned sharply, recognizing the orange scarf before he saw the pointed features and vulpine smirk. "Felix," Sam sighed. He was still wary, despite his relaxed shoulders. "What are you doing here?" He asked. It was odd that Felix had just _happened_  to be in the exact same spot of the forest as Sam.

Felix shrugged. He leaned against a tree, crossing his arms lazily. "Oh, you know... Stalking my prey," he hissed. Yes, hissed. Sam was beginning to think that a snake was a more fitting animal for Felix. Sam took a step back. "Stalking- your prey?" he repeated. It was odd phrasing, to say the least. Felix pushed himself off the tree and reached behind his back. Sam's instincts told him to run. His curiosity told him to wait. Felix pulled a knife on him, holding it at Sam's eye-level, the point right between them.

Sam froze. He should have run. He should have _run_. Felix took a few deliberate steps forward, making Sam back up into a huge oak tree. "Yes, _Samuel_ ," Felix spit his name out like it was poison. "My prey. You are my prey. Get it?" he sneered. Sam didn't like the way his sneer showed both his canine teeth. It was eerie. Felix slowly moved the knife downwards, letting it drag slightly over Sam's nose. It drew a few small beads of blood. Simmons was going to flip when he got back.

The knife settled against Sam's throat and Felix looked smug as ever. He was so sure that Sam wasn't going to fight back. Sam had half a mind to do just that, if only to prove him wrong. But he couldn't. The second he moved his hands, that knife would be hilt deep in his neck. Damn it. All he wanted was some honey, not to be held at knifepoint by his envious childhood friend. Yes, Sam knew it was envy. He had seen it before. The first time, when Felix had asked him who his parents were. He saw it in his eyes then, heard it in his tone of voice.

Felix desperately wanted what he had. He wanted to be able to tell people that he was the son of the kings, that he was the _Prince_. But Sam got to do that. He got to walk around in his fancy clothes and go poking in the fields for whatever plant or other and everyone would stare at him and say 'my, what a strong, handsome young man he's grown into. The kings must be so proud'.

Felix glared at Sam, right into his stormy gray eyes. "I will make you pay. I will make you pay for leaving me there in that shitty orphanage to go and live the lap of fucking luxury. I will make you pay for turning me into a thief." Sam looked confused. "Yeah, I'm a thief. I can't get food any other way. Everyone's too busy fawning over you, I doubt they even notice anything's gone," Felix mumbled, mostly to himself. Sam could feel the knife cut into his neck more when he tried to speak, so he kept his mouth shut and let Felix have his monologue.

"So maybe," Felix got a troubling shine in his eyes. "I should make you a _little less worthy_  of their affection, hmm?" Sam got a terrible feeling his gut. It tripled when Felix drew another, smaller knife from his waistband. He briefly wondered just how many he had. "Why don't we get started?" Felix said, bringing the smaller knife up to Sam's forehead. Sam kicked him in the chest. He was swift, not giving Felix any time to strike. Felix yelped, stumbling back and falling to the ground. He still kept a tight grip on both his knives.

Sam lunged at Felix, still prone, and pinned his arms to the ground. Felix made an animalistic snarl and head butted Sam right in the bridge of his nose. A stinging pain shot through him and he reeled back, clutching at his face. Felix sprang up and charged at him, ready to attack.

Sam didn't see it coming. He should have. All those months of training and he couldn't even predict an attack. Felix got close. Close enough that Sam had to keep stepping back if he wanted to land a blow. Felix knew that. He just kept dancing around, slashing every once in a while and peppering Sam's arms and torso with tiny cuts. Simmons was going to _freak_  when he got back.

Felix got tired of the easy fight and dared to aim at Sam's face. It was a quick movement, a flick of the wrist, really. Sam wasn't ready for it. The blade tore into his flesh, dragging downwards across his face in a diagonal mark. He could feel the blood dripping down his face. He could taste it, iron and sickly in his mouth. He stumbled back, stifling a scream of pain and Felix just chuckled to himself.

"My my, isn't that beautiful?" he asked, wiping the knife on his leg and examining it. Sam held a hand up to his face to try and stifle the bleeding. It wasn't doing any good, just drenching his hands with red and staining his sleeves. Simmons was going to have a panic attack when he got back.

"But," Felix paused, standing over Sam and looking confident. "Don't you think it's a little..." he tapped his chin with the knife, exaggerating his thoughtful expression. "A little uneven? Asymmetrical?" He nodded. "I should fix that." His gaze turned deadly and he crouched down, straddling Sam and putting the knife back to his throat. He used his other hand and slowly pried Sam's hands away from his face and pinned them to the ground. Sam realized that day that Felix was so much stronger than his wiry frame led one to believe.

He got another cut. A gash, more like. It was deliberate this time, a thick, gaping wound that bled so much it blurred his vision and turned it red. Felix was cackling now. He reveled in the way that Sam squirmed, the way he tried so hard not to scream. He almost regretted it when he had to leave. But, alas, he knew if he stayed any longer Sam would regain his senses and crack his skull against a tree. Or worse.

Felix slipped away into the shadowy foliage while Sam was still clutching at his face. Agonized gasps of breath escaping, drowned in blood. Simmons was going to- Sam didn't even have the strength to imagine what would happen anymore. He just laid on the ground long after he knew Felix had gone and he just waited for his senses to clear enough so he could walk. He took off the silk sash he wore and pressed it to his face, hoping to staunch the flow of blood that was still tricking down his face.

Sam knew the way back to the palace. It didn't take long to get out of the trees and he almost broke into a run when he saw it. But he couldn't risk passing out this close. He already felt weak. Weak, that's what he was. Why didn't he just fight back? He could have easily bested Felix without even trying. But he just sat back and look where that got him. Maybe it was pity. Maybe he pitied Felix so much that he wanted to give him an ounce of satisfaction. Sam decided to go with that option and be done with it. He'd be glad if he never had to see that orange scarf again.

Simmons didn't have a panic attack when he got back. Sam was proud at that. There were tears, though. He and Grif were sitting in the garden like they always were at sunset. Sam came through the gate looking like hell itself and Simmons went cold. He stared, wide-eyed at Sam and tried to get ahold of his shaking hands. "Sam?" he asked meekly. 'What happened' went unsaid by both his parents. Grif simply put a hand on Simmons' leg and furrowed his brow. Sam came over to where they were and slumped down on the ground.

"I didn't get honey," he mumbled, his voice still thick with blood. It would take days to wash out the taste. Simmons got out from Grif's hold and sat down on the ground in front of Sam. Slowly, with hands still shaking, he pulled Sam's hands and the silk cloth away from his face and nearly screamed. He wasn't prepared for the gnarling X shaped gash across his son's face. He wasn't prepared for his head to droop and come to rest on his shoulder, blood seeping into his clothes.

He wasn't prepared for any of it. So he cried. It wasn't something he did often, to the mock surprise of Grif. He cried more than he had when Grif agreed to adopt a child. He cried more than he did at heir wedding. He cried so much that Grif got worried and crouched down next to him. "Hey. Cinnamon, it's going to be okay. He's going to be okay." Grif silently sent a nearby guard to go fetch the medic and he wrapped his arms around his husband. "He's strong. He'll be just fine," he mumbled, trying to assure himself as much as Simmons.

Sam recovered in two months. He had lost a lot of blood. He had gained two new scars. The scars had healed to the best of the medic's ability. She said they weren't going to go away completely, but with a little pigment he could mask them well enough. The first time he saw his scars, Sam hated them. They were an ugly reminder of Felix. One was definitely bigger than the other, more noticeable. Sam scoffed. 'Asymmetrical' indeed. Wasn't that what Felix had said?

He got into the habit of masking his scars as he got older. He unconsciously wore darker colors and never set foot in the forest again. In fact, he rarely ventured out without someone with him. He didn't care who it was. Once, brought his tailor along just so he could feel more secure. And he never saw Felix again, never spotted that infernal orange scarf. He started to forget about it, to move past it. His scars became less of a reminder and more of a part of him. Just another thing in his morning routine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things'll definitly pick up more in the next chapter.
> 
> Leaving comments always makes me smile! ❤❤❤


	3. Chapter One | The Rabbit meets the Lion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A masquerade ball is held and Prince Samuel meets a noble lion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying out shorter updates, seeing if I can get chapters out more frequently if I make them shorter.

The worst thing about being tall, Sam figured, was how bad he felt having to look down at everyone else. On more than one occasion, his neck would get strained after a day of bending down and greeting people. Even his father, King Richard Simmons was shorter. Once, he had been the tallest person Sam had ever met. But that was a long time ago. Now, Sam towered over the rest of the royal court at six feet four inches. His other father, King Dexter Grif, liked to gripe about his height, saying it was hard to get a good look at him when he was way up in the clouds. King Grif was short.

Sam stood by his fathers at the entrance to the palace and nodded kindly to all the guests who passed. The air was cool and a chilly breeze swept past, rustling the small fruit trees. The warmth from the palace was so inviting, Sam wished he could go inside. But he had to stay and greet everyone. It was polite, it was custom. Even if all their faces were covered by masks, he could feel their excitement. After all, how often did one get to attend a masquerade ball? They weren't exactly a weekly event.

Sam's face was covered by a papier mâché mask made to look like rabbit. King Grif didn't think it was fitting. He said Sam's mask should have looked like a Stag or a lion, maybe a wolf. His tailor thought otherwise. He said their masks should be gentle, a reminder that the royal family is kind and good. So Sam's mask was a rabbit, a rich gray with small plantlike accents painted with a sage green. King Grif's mask was a sheep, painted a soft goldenrod orange and King Simmons wore a pure white goat mask with striking maroon horns. Some would argue a goat wasn't gentle, but the mask crafter made it so.

Sam could tell the crowd was dwindling so he took the opportunity to slip inside and warm his cold hands. He sent polite nods to the guests who passed. They were mostly nobles and upperclass dressed in rich clothing and bright colors. Their animal masks smiled back at him and he dared to wander in a bit more. He entered the ballroom and felt a few heads turn. Of course, he was a towering figure with arms that could kill, according to his tailor.

His attire had been quite a task, he had said. Sam usually didn't wear fitted sleeves, preferring the freer movement of a simple wool shirt. But this ball was a strictly formal event so Sam was wearing a heavily embroidered jacket with a high collar. It was of a deep green to match his mask. The jacket reached down to mid-thigh. His long sleeves ended in embroidered cuffs hemmed with a golden thread. He wore a pair of dark gray leggings and knee high boots, the only ones he hadn't scuffed up beyond saving. His tailor had tied up his long hair with a gold ribbon and pronounced him fit to be seen.

And, speak of the devil, there he was now. Sam spotted his tailor in the crowd, waving his hand and jumping up and down. Sam shook his head fondly and walked up to him. His tailor lifted up his pale pink mouse mask and gave Sam a once-over. "Yep. I did a damn good job," he said, sounding quite proud of himself. Sam smiled. "Yes you did, Donut. Thank you." Donut was a weird name but Sam had learned to get used to it. He absolutely refused to answer to any other name.

"May I have this dance?" Donut asked, putting his mask back on and holding out his hand. Sam took it and nodded. "Always," he answered. Sam could feel Donut laughing, even if he couldn't hear it over the crowd. Donut reached up and put his hand on Sam's shoulder. The height difference made Sam want to lean down, if only to let Donut relax his arm. Donut was a great dancer. He said he had learned from the medic's assistant, a man who liked to dress in deep violet and talked to himself in hushed tones.

Donut himself preferred to dress in light colors. Pinks and salmons and corals, all made of lighter fabric and shimmering with golden threads. Donut took pride in his appearance. The pair danced slowly, in time with the slow tempo of the song that was playing. The orchestra had a soft spot for slow songs, this was the third one in a row they had played. "I heard the Kings talking earlier," Donut said, his voice muffled by his mouse mask.

"They said something about extra protection," he continued. "Now, I know _all about_  protection. It's very important. But I got the feeling they meant a knight." Donut confided in Sam quite often, trusting him to keep quiet. Sam usually did. Most of the things Donut said to him we're things he technically shouldn't know. Like the fact that his fathers were so worried about him they were considering hiring a- a bodyguard of sorts to protect him.

Sam looked over his shoulder towards the doors as he heard the crowd quiet slightly. He spotted Grif and Simmons, hand in hand, walking into the room. They were trailed by an assortment of royals from neighboring Kingdoms. He recognized prince Lavernius Tucker- no, King- he was a King now, Sam remembered. Tucker was trailed by his knight, a man with a fierce gaze and brown hair that stuck out from his face. They were both wearing masks too. Tucker with a deep blue panther and his knight wearing a gray stag, it's antlers a shocking yellow. See, it would be weird for Sam to have a stag mask too.

Sam saw Queen Vanessa Kimball of Chorus with her knight, a woman with bright red hair. Kimball was wearing an elegant eagle mask, it's beak an unusual blue. Her knight wore a tiger mask that snarled back at Sam. Behind Kimball and Tucker, a tall man with a dog mask poked his head above the crowd. Sam immediately got more excited at the prospect of someone his own height. As the rest of the royals moved away, saw the man clearly.

He was dressed in a deep blue, wearing just a chestplate for armor. It was clear he was a knight. He had a shortword at his belt and stood up straight, at attention. His arm was linked in that of a slightly shorter man with lighter blue robes. He was wearing a blue ram mask, it's expression clearly angry. If he guessed right, that must be King Leonard Church and his knight.

They joined the rest and mingled with the noblemen. Sam realized he had been staring and almost didn't notice when Donut let go of him and his fathers approached with someone in tow. Simmons lifted up his mask and smiled at Sam. It was his 'I'm about to tell you something I know you won't like' smile. Sam grew up seeing that smile. Simmons gestured to the man behind them. He was average height, stocky build. He held his hands behind his back in a gesture of respect. He was decked out in a full suit of light armor. A chestplate, pauldrons, forearm guards, greaves. The whole set. It was all a dulled silver color and Sam guessed it must be from cleaning it so many times. The man looked like he had spilt a lot of blood. It was in his stature, his demeanor.

From between the pieces of armor, Sam saw he was wearing all red. Wether that was to mask the blood or because he just liked it, he didn't know. There was a sword sheathed at his hip, a red ribbon tied around the handle and what looked like a knife tucked into his boot. Sam couldn't see his face, but he caught a glimpse of blue eyes from under his red lion mask. 

"This event is filled with people." Simmons snapped Sam out of his reverie with his words. "And those people are wearing masks. It's hard to tell who they really are." He glanced over at Grif, who made a gesture for him to continue. "And we want you to be safe. Well, saf _er_. So- maybe even just for tonight, this man is going to be your knight."

Sam stared, bewildered. He could understand his parents' concern, he really could. But who would dare to try something in a crowded ballroom full of people, some of whom had weapons? However, he knew his father. Simmons was stubborn and he wouldn't take no for an answer. Especially when Sam's safety was at stake. So he sighed beneath his mask and held out his hand to the man.

The man took it, a bit formally. His arm was stiff. "What should I call you?" Sam asked, leaning in a bit to make his voice heard. The man grunted. "Sarge," he said. Sam raised an eyebrow. That was as odd a name as Donut. "Sarge?" Sam repeated. Sarge nodded. He lifted up his mask and stared at Sam with ice blue eyes. They were the most beautiful eyes Sam had even seen. He had blonde hair and a huge scar that ran over his nose and doubled back over his cheek. "I guess I'll call you 'Prince' then? Or would you prefer 'your highness?'" Sarge asked. Sam shook his head. "No no, call me Sam," he insisted.

 

Sarge put his mask back down and Sam was sad to see those blue eyes cast into shadow again. "Now then, Sam, what do you usually do at these events, hmm? I've never been to one," Sarge said. Sam shrugged. "Usually, I just stand around and talk to nobles who pass by. Sometimes I dance," he said. Sarge just nodded. Sam noticed that Donut had run off somewhere and he was left alone again. He decided to go and meet the royals.

Sarge followed closely behind him as he made his way over to King Tucker, who was surrounded by half a dozen beautifully dressed women. They were all wearing masks depicting various small woodland animals and wore pastel tones, complimenting their pale complexions. King Tucker stood out from them all, not only because of his appearance. He was a good four inches shorter than all the women. He knight stood off to the side, a glass of something amber in his hand. Sam was pretty sure he shouldn't be drinking on the job, but he wasn't one to judge.

Tucker spotted Sam and untangled his hand from a blonde woman's hair and moved his mask off his face. He gave him a bright, cheery smile and bowed his head. "Pleasure to finally meet you, Prince Samuel. Your dads have told me a lot about you," Tucker said. Sam smiled, then, remembering he had his mask on, said "All good things, I suppose?" his voice was amused. Tucker shrugged. "Mostly," he said. "Although, His Majesty King Dexter did say you inherited King Richard's stubbornness." Sam shrugged vaguely. It was true.

Tucker soon got pulled away from the conversation by the women and in turn he got pulled away from them by his knight. Sam glanced around, anxious for someone else to occupy his time and he spotted Queen Kimball talking with a few nobles. He made a beeline for them, hearing Sarge follow silently behind him.

Kimball turned towards him as he approached, inclining her head in greeting. Sam was ready to bow to her when he caught something out of the corner of his eye. He disregarded it at first, followed through with his bow and started up a lively conversation about the stars. When he saw it again, Sam turned sharply to find the thing. It was a small movement like someone darting behind cover. He was definitely being watched. He didn't like it, and there were too many people in the ballroom to be able to avoid their gazes.

Sam said goodbye to Queen Kimball and beckoned Sarge to follow him again. He exited the ballroom and made a sharp right turn. Sarge kept looking behind him as they traversed the corridors. Maybe he had seen the thing too? "Where are we going, Sam?" Sarge asked, casting yet another glance behind him. Sam sped up his pace. "To the atrium. It was getting too stuffy in there," He answered. Yes, that was it. It wasn't trying to escape from whoever was following.

They arrived at the atrium, a large glassed in garden with a huge tulip poplar browning out of the center. There was a round skylight in the ceiling of the palace above, so the plants got sunlight. King Simmons had the atrium constructed for King Grif, because he missed the flowers in the winter. There was a huge swath of marigolds, his favorite flower, ringing the base of the poplar. It always smelled like spring in the atrium. Sam loved it. It was a quiet place to collect his thoughts when he didn't want to venture outside.

Sam sat down on a small stone bench and stretched his long legs out in front of him. He watched Sarge as he closed the glass doors slowly and went to stand by the poplar. He looked up into the thick foliage and colorful blossoms. Sam followed his gaze, landing on a massive flower streaked with orange, yellow and green. Sarge started to walk around to the other side of the poplar, still looking up and running his hand over the rough, striated bark.

Sam was so caught up in the beauty of the tree he almost didn't hear the glass doors open again. What he recognized was the telltale squeak of the hinge. He turned his head slowly and was met with the point of a blade. His mind was immediately racked with memories. Ten years ago in the forest. An orange scarf, a sneer that showed too much teeth. A name that didn't fit. He was fox- no, he was a snake. He just _looked_  like a fox. He was wearing a fox mask too, decked in orange and gray and looking just like he had all those years ago. Sam didn't need to see his face to know who it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh shit, a cliffhanger! How dare I!
> 
> The beautiful art for this chapter was done by sxpaiscia, for whom this fic exists! Thank you sxp, it's wonderful! ❤❤❤
> 
> Don't forget to leave a comment, they always make me smile! ❤❤❤


	4. Chapter Two | The Rabbit is a Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam gets hit with a blast from the past. He doesn't like it one bit.

Felix tapped his knife against Sam's mask. "My my, what a tasty little rabbit," he murmured, leaning down to get on eye-level with Sam. Sam could hear him smiling behind his mask. His eyes were piercing. They made Sam _very_  uncomfortable. He shifted on the bench, trying to put a few more inches between himself and Felix. He glanced over at the poplar, hoping Sarge had noticed the garishly clad man pointing a knife at his face. Speaking of, Felix had gone all out. He looked like he had rolled around in the orange clay that made up the far canyon walls. Sam was beginning to think it was his favorite color. It wasn't a warm orange like the sunset. It was abrasive to the eyes.

Sam cleared his throat and shoved his memories away. "Knives again? Don't you get tired of using the same tactic over and over?" Sam asked, doing his best to mask his shaking voice by dropping it a few octaves. "Stick to what you know, I guess," Felix said casually, shrugging his shoulders. Sam frowned behind his mask. Felix hooked a thumb under his mask and pulled it off his face. "How are you doing, Samuel? Are your fathers treating you well? Did your face heal up?" He broke into laughter. It was high-pitched and cackling. He threw his head back and laughed some more.

"Really though, did they heal?" He asked, switching quickly back to seriousness and making sure the knife was still as threatening as his gaze. Sam didn't answer. He didn't want to give Felix the satisfaction of knowing how bad his scars were. He suddenly regretted not masking them tonight. He thought he would be fine, hidden behind the rabbit mask. He was wrong. Felix took ahold of the rabbit's right ear and pulled it off Sam's face.

Sam grimaced. He still couldn't fight back. He still just sat back and let Felix win. Now he had a knife at his throat _once again_  and the look on Felix's face was going to haunt him for the rest of his life. He stared at Sam with unbridled glee, even going so far as to compliment his own handiwork. "Just marvelous," he whispered. Sam considered head butting him. Maybe it would shut him up. Sam stole a glance around again, wondering where his knight was. So much for being his protector. Not that he needed one. He could handle Felix.

While Sam had gained strength and muscle, Felix had barely grown taller. He still had his wiry frame and bad posture. He still had the horrible haircut from when he was a kid. And he still held a grudge. In a way, Sam could understand him. He felt like he got left behind. Sam went on to become a _prince_... Felix wasn't anything. But Felix's methods weren't ones Sam wanted to be a part of. Okay, that was putting it lightly. He didn't want to be held at knifepoint because he got adopted.

He didn't want to be physically harmed because Felix thought it was unfair. "Felix..." Sam said, his gaze snapping down to Felix's hand, hovering centimeters from his skin. "What are you doing?" he demanded, leaning away. Felix didn't answer him. He still had that look on his face as he dragged his finger down Sam's scar, the one he had etched into his face with deliberateness. Sam shuddered. He didn't like how sensitive his scars were, even after ten years. He didn't like the way Felix's hand _felt_  so he grabbed both his wrists and sent him a withering stare.

"Don't. Touch me," He snarled, standing up from the bench and looming over Felix. He wasn't a skittish rabbit. He didn't care which mask he wore, He was a wolf. He was wild and vicious and he didn't like Felix. He _hated_  Felix. Just as much as Felix hated him. He saw the knife drop from Felix's grip as a wave of panic crossed his face. Sam could feel him go limp in his grasp and immediately thought he had fainted.

Upon looking up, however, he saw his knight standing behind Felix and holding his sword, the blade pointing away. He had knocked Felix unconscious with the pommel of his sword. Sarge heaved a sigh and took Felix from Sam, heaving him onto his back in a fireman's carry. Sam became acutely aware of the fact that Sarge hadn't said a word about his scars. He hadn't said a word at all, in fact.

Sam picked up his mask from the ground and put it back on. He glanced down at Felix's mask and took that too. Sarge was already halfway down the hall by the time he caught up. Felix was still out cold. Sarge still hadn't said anything. They were both silent the whole walk back. Sam got more and more anxious the closer they got, wondering what people would think when he and his knight came into the ballroom carrying an unconscious person.

To Sam's relief, Sarge didn't turn into the ballroom. He walked straight out of the palace and dumped Felix onto the lawn. Only then did he speak. He did more than that, in fact. He tore off his mask and gave Sam a glare that could curdle milk. "Are you _insane_?" he demanded. Sam stepped back. He hadn't expected this. He never expected anyone to shout at him. No one did, save for two people. Hearing such a frustrated tone coming from someone he barely knew was new to him.

"Why didn't you say something? Why didn't you fight back?  Have you never been threatened before?" Sarge asked, his voice less demanding now, more concerned. It was dark out and Sam couldn't see his face clearly, but his blonde hair shined in the pale light of the moon. Sam couldn't help but scoff. "As a matter of fact, I _have_  been threatened before. More than that." He left it at that, hoping against all odds that Sarge hadn't noticed his scars and would ask about it.

So much for hoping. "Is that how you got those scars?" Sarge asked. He had abandoned almost all of his anger now and his voice was softer. It still had an edge to it, though. Like he was giving an order. Sam nodded. He felt a bit safer hiding behind his mask, but he knew he'd have to show Sarge sometime. "Yes. He did it," Sam said, giving Felix a half-hearted kick to the shoulder. Sarge sent a glare at the unconscious form.

"He eeds to be dealt with. Who knows what else he's done," Sarge muttered. He ran a hand through his hair, looking exasperated. "I'm not used to following orders," he said after a silence. "I'm used to _giving_  them. I've never been a guard to someone before." Sam was silent, not knowing quite how to respond. "I don't know what to do with myself," Sarge continued. He seemed like he was talking to himself, at this point.

"I want to take charge of the situation, not stand around waiting for who knows what! I was made to be a soldier!" Sarge was pacing around the lawn now, stepping over Felix's body as he went. "I was made to charge headfirst into battle and cut through the enemy lines, not babysit a prince-" He stopped, glancing over at Sam nervously. Sam just raised his eyebrow. "So you don't want to be my knight?" He asked. Sarge kept staring at him, idly fiddling with his lion mask. "No I don't, your highness," he admitted.

Sam nodded appreciatively. "Thank you for your honesty. I don't want you as my knight either," he said plainly. "If you please, find something to do about him," he gestured to Felix, still out cold on the grass. "I'm going to bed. I've had quite enough of tonight." Sam turned on his heel and walked back inside the palace, still wearing his rabbit mask and clutching Felix's fox mask.

* * *

 

"You _what_?" King Simmons screeched, staring at the limp body flung over Sarge's shoulder. The ball had ended hours ago and he was taking Sam's advice and finding something to do about the... Criminal. Who better to decide than the rulers themselves? "Yeah, what?" King Grif was sitting at the dinner table with a plate of food. He was staring at Sarge with bewilderment, eyeing Felix every once in a while with a caution.

"I knocked him out. Sam was being held at knifepoint." Sarge hefted Felix back onto his shoulders to keep him from slipping off. King Simmons looked like he was about to faint. "Knifepoi- who is this? Why did he do it?" He demanded, glowering at Felix and clenching his fists with- was it determination? "Sam said it was the same person who gave him his... Scars." Sarge tried for a shrug, but only succeeded in knocking Felix's head against his chestplate. King Grif wrinkled his nose with distaste and seemed to lose his appetite. "Felix is back?" he practically spat

Simmons made noise halfway between a sigh and a groan. "Apparently," He mumbled, massaging his temples and  trying to calm his frustration. "We- we have to get rid of him for good," he said, like it was a revelation. Grif looked up from his food again. "You want to _kill_  him?" he asked, his voice dangerously high. He had turned away from his food and was staring Simmons straight in the face. Simmons scoffed at him, waving his hand as if that were the most preposterous idea. "Are you crazy? Of course not! I'm not a murderer!" Simmons explained.

"I wasn't saying you would be the one to personally kill him!" Grif said. He was standing now and Sarge moved out of Grif's proverbial line of fire. Simmons prepared his own verbal assault. Sarge could tell they were both taking their anger out on each other instead of Felix himself. "Oh, and _you would_?!" Simmons shouted, his voice laced with accusation. Grif crossed his arms. "I've killed people before, how different could this be?"

Simmons faltered at that, his expression dropping. "Y- You ass! Is this really the time to be bringing up your past? You know how that makes me feel!" He said, gesturing vaguely around the room. Grif simply glared at the floor. "Maybe if you weren't suggesting _murder_  I would-" Simmons brought his fist down on the table, making Grif start.  "We are not! Killing him. I was  _going_  to suggest exile," Simmons said in a dangerously level tone.

"Why didn't you say so?" Grif mumbled. Sarge winced. It was a bad move, trying to get in the last word when King Simmons was already at the end of his fuse. "I swear to _all the gods_ , Dexter Grif! I will exile you too if you don't shut your mouth!" Simmons yelled, jabbing a finger at Grif's chest. "Make me," Grif taunted. "I'm going to burn everything you own," Simmons said, adopting a deadpan tone and bringing up a hand to tiredly drag through his hair. "Get him out of my sight. We'll deal with him in the morning. I've done too much socializing for one night," he said to Sarge and slumped into a chair, his head in his hands.

Sarge was thankful to be able to escape. He didn't enjoy the tense atmosphere of the room. Fortunately, he soon found someone to show him to the dungeon. He wasn't surprised to find it empty and dumped Felix in the closest one he could find that didn't have a family of rodents nesting in it. He quickly made sure Felix was still unconscious before closing the door to the cell and locking it with the key that was hanging by the door. Sarge left as quickly as he could, not liking the ominous sounds coming from the shadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make my day and encourage me to write! Consider showing me some love! ❤❤❤


	5. Chapter Three | The Snake has Information

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam has a little chat with a certain vile creature.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all, I'm having fun with this. ❤
> 
> I also noticed how inconsistent my paragraph lengths are lol.

Wake up.  
Get dressed.  
Have breakfast with the Kings.  
Take a walk in the gardens.

Sam did those things nearly every morning without fail. It was muscle memory at that point. He enjoyed the safe feeling he got when he knew exactly how his morning would go, but not enough that he didn't actively seek out excitement. He didn't like to admit it, but the incident with Felix the night before was the most exciting thing that had happened to him in a while.

As Sam sat in the gardens watching a few bees busying themselves with the late blooming flowers, he absently traced the rough lines of his scars and thought back to the masquerade ball.

 _"I was made to charge headfirst into battle and cut through the enemy lines, not babysit a prince,"_ Sarge had said. Sam scoffed. He didn't need a babysitter. He didn't need a knight. Sam laid back on the grass and squinted up at the morning sky.

He was bored. There was nothing he particularly wanted to do. He didn't like it, but even Sarge would be at least a bit more entertaining than sitting with his thoughts. And those were consisted mostly of a certain snake disguised as a fox.

So he got up, brushed himself off and headed back towards the palace with the intention of finding out where Sarge had gone after they decided their mutual indifference towards each other.

Sam took his sweet time looking for Sarge. He kept getting sidetracked by frivolous things and before he realized it, it was lunchtime already. With a shrug, he set off towards the dining room to get something to eat.

He found Grif and Simmons already there when he entered. They were sitting next to each other conversing in hushed tones, Grif nodding very once in a while and picking at his food. Today he had some sort of casserole and a fresh salad made with persimmons that king Leonard had brought them as a gift. Grif had a field day making jokes about per _simmons_.

Sam had a relatively peaceful lunch and he had nearly finished before Grif pushed aside his empty plate and clasped his hands in front of him on the table. Sam noticed immediately. That was his 'I mean business' gesture. It was almost never good. "Sam... You need a protector," Grif started. He had barely finished speaking before Sam frowned at him. "No, I-"

"Let me finish." Grif held up his hand and continued with a sigh. "You are clearly messed up from Felix. More so than either of us thought. Sarge told us- he said that you froze up when Felix showed up at the ball. That's- it's dangerous. I mean, what if someone really tried to kill you?"

" _Felix_  really tried to kill me. And I took care of myself," Sam argued, gesturing in a random direction to indicate Felix, wherever he was. Simmons frowned. "But it was Sa-" Grif laid his hand over Simmons' firmly and gave him a look. Simmons went silent. He looked worried.

Sam pushed back a stray few hairs and sighed. "I appreciate that you're concerned for my safety. I really do. But I don't _need_  a protector. I'll just be more careful. Besides, Sarge said himself he doesn't care much for me."

Grif nodded evenly but his jaw was set with solemnity. "I know, but... This isn't up for debate, Sam. If you leave the palace gates, you're going with Sarge. I can't risk something happening to you."

Sam stood up abruptly from the table. "You can't-" he began, scrambling for the right words. Grif looked like he wanted to get up too, just to lessen the height gap. But he didn't. He stayed seated, holding Simmons' hand. "I care too _DAMN MUCH_ about you to let you get hurt," he said. His voice was sharp and he struggled to keep it even. "... Again."

Sam hated to see that defeated look in Grif's eyes. It wasn't him. He was loving and sarcastic and so full of life even if all he ever wanted to do was sleep. Seeing him look so utterly downtrodden, pleading... It wasn't right for Sam to do that to him. "... Okay. Alright. I'll do it," he conceded with a slump of his shoulders. "I'll do it."

Simmons flashed Sam a grateful smile when he walked to the other side of the table and gave them both a hug before leaving without another word. Grif watched him go and let out a groan.

"He's just like you, I don't know what I'm gonna do," he lamented as he rested his forehead on the table. Simmons laughed quietly. "Hey. It's going to be okay," he said, gently rubbing circles into Grif's back. "Is it? Because he's too stubborn to give up his pride for safety."

Simmons snorted. "Even I wasn't that bad. But he'll be okay. I mean, Felix is going to be exiled tomorrow so he'll be out of the picture. And I really think he'd get along with Sarge if he tried."

Grif let out a loud sigh and turned his head to look at Simmons. "Why'd I let you talk me into this? Parenthood is hard," he said. Simmons rolled his eyes. "Because you love me," he answered.

Grif mumbled something that sounded like "Of course I do." He absently poked his fork at the table. "But I didn't think we'd still be doing this now. He's 25," Grif said. Simmons shrugged. "He's still my son. I think I'll be coddling him until he moves out or we die."

Grif chuckled. "Till death do us part," he recited, lacing his and Simmons' fingers together. "Yeah. Until death," Simmons whispered, lifting their hand up and pressing a kiss to Grif's knuckles.

* * *

 

Sam didn't have to ask too many people to find out where Sarge went. He had gone into town that morning and would be back before dinner time. Sam found himself irrationally annoyed at the timing. Oh well, he'd just have to find something else to occupy his time.

He overheard a few maids whispering about the unconscious man they had seen Sarge carrying down into the dungeon the night before. They said he was going to be exiled the next morning. Oh, now that piqued Sam's interest. He had been wondering where Sarge had taken Felix. To the dungeons it was.

It was dark and damp and unpleasant in the dungeons. A perfect place for a criminal. Sam found Felix with a bored look on his face, his back against the far cell wall and a stray shard of rock in his left hand. When Felix noticed him, he lifted the rock shard defensively before lowering it once he recognized who it was.

"Oh. Hey, Samuel. I thought you were someone else," Felix said, as if he was just sitting down there for fun, and not imprisoned against his will. "Not very talkative, are we?" Felix joked when Sam didn't say a word.

After an uncomfortably long silence, Sam crossed his arms and stood up straighter. "Why did you try to kill me?" Sam asked. Felix scoffed. He effortlessly spun the rock shard between his fingers. "I didn't try to-"

Sam interrupted. "Is it because I got adopted? That isn't exactly my fault." Felix scrambled to his feet and stomped over to the cell door. He hit the bars with the shard of rock for dramatic effect. "Samuel. I never tried to kill you!" he shouted.

"Then what was that last night?" Sam demanded, uncrossing his arms and spreading them out. Felix waved his hand around. "Oh. Pffftt, that was nothing. That was just simple fear tactics," he said easily. Sam scowled at him. "Why did you do it?" he asked.

"Why?" Felix said. " _WHY?_ " He shifted his wight to his other foot and shook his head. "Because when we were both in the orphanage, we were best friends. You haven't forgotten, have you? We were inseparable. You promised me that we would go everywhere together."

Sam leveled Felix with a dangerously controlled gaze. "You're remembering wrong. You stole from the other children and hid behind me while I took pity on you."

Felix waved his hand dismissively. "Ehh. Semantics. In any case, do you know how much I liked you? Because I liked you a lot, Sam. I was... Almost reluctant to hurt you, to scar you like that." Felix pointed to Sam's face, where his scars were clearly visible. "Almost?" Sam asked. He took a step closer to the bars.

"Well, I couldn't have you out shining me in looks, could I?" Felix answered, flashing him a smile that was all teeth. Sam could practically hear the snake hiss.

"Come here." Felix said. He slipped his hands through the bars and beckoned Sam to him. "Come here. Closer," he said again, when Sam didn't move at first. When he was close enough, Felix reached out and caught Sam by the collar of his shirt. He pulled hard enough that Sam hit his forehead against the cold bars of the cell.

He held Sam against the bars while a ran his finger along the uneven cuts. "See, it's not even that bad... You can barely see it," he purred, still smiling. Sam tried to wrench himself free from Felix's grasp. "I nearly died of blood loss, I think this particular injury IS that bad," he said. 

"Eeeh, you lived, right?" Felix answered, still gripping Sam by the collar. "You're not helping," Sam growled through gritted teeth. "In fact, nothing you've said so far has made me think you deserve anything less than banishment."

"You wound me," Felix said, finally releasing his grasp to put a hand to his chest. Sam stepped out of range and straightened his shirt out. "I'm serious. You attacked me _twice_  because I happened to be more fortunate than you. Guess what, Felix, some people have better opportunities. We don't live in a perfectly egalitarian society."

Felix's mouth twitched. "I am fully aware of that bullshit, Samuel!" he shouted. Sam couldn't help but smile a bit at Felix's frustration. "Good. I'm glad you understand. I don't want to see you again," Sam said, jabbing a finger in Felix's direction. He turned quickly and made to leave.

"Sam, wait. I- there's something you need to know," Felix said. He tapped the shard of rock against the bars again. "What?" Sam asked. He was starting to think coming down here was a bad idea. "I li- I never tried to kill you. But there's someone who is," Felix said. He sounded genuine, but then again he'd always had a silver tongue.

"Yeah?" Sam asked skeptically. Felix nodded "Yeah. He wears an eyepatch, he has a nasty scarred up face and a bunch of tattoos. His name is Terrance." Sam could feel a laugh bubbling up at the mention of his name. "You'll know him when you see him," Felix assured him, his expression dead serious.

Sam allowed himself a few breaths to calm down and not laugh. "Is he just some random person hellbent on killing me?" he asked. Felix shook his head. "No. He was in the orphanage with us. Keep an eye out, just in case. He's good at keeping to the shadows."

"Why should I believe you?" Sam asked, his head tilted to one side. "Because people generally try to protect their crushes," Felix mumbled as he started to walk away from the cell door. Sam paused. "... What?" he asked. Felix cleared his throat and repeated himself louder. "Because people generally try to protect their friends."

Sam scoffed. "We're not friends. If we ever were before, we sure as hell aren't now." Felix sat back down where he was before and gave Sam a wave. "It was nice seeing you, Sam," he said. Sam shook his head. "No it wasn't," he said as he left the dungeons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might add illustrations later, so check back for those!
> 
> I'm doing a little impromptu Ask Me Anything in the comments, so if you'd like to know something about me or my writing, just leave a comment! I'll be answering them A L L . ❤❤❤
> 
> -
> 
> Don't forget to comment, they make me so happy! ❤❤❤ Love y'all, thank you for reading! ❤❤❤


	6. Chapter Four | The Wolf Drowns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bois get wet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may add illustrations to this later, so keep an eye out. ❤

Sarge had apparently gotten back from town early, seeing as he was waiting impatiently when Sam got out of the dungeons. He tried to ignore it and simply walk past him, but Sarge caught him by the arm. "Why we're you down there alone?" he demanded, his voice lowered but still sounding like a shout.

"I wanted to say hello to someone before he got exiled." Sam gave him an indifferent shrug and pulled his arm free. Sarge released him readily. "You didn't take anyone down there with you?" he asked, peering into the dark doorway to the dungeons. Sam shook his head. "No. It was a... Private conversation," he said.

Sarge noticed Sam's guarded stance and dropped the subject. "Alright then. I heard you wanted to see me?" he asked, straightening his posture slightly. Sam fiddled with his hair braid. "Yes... You see-" he started. "I'm terribly bored and you're something out of the ordinary." He winced slightly and corrected himself. "Some _one_."

Sarge looked mildly surprised. "Oh. That wasn't what I was expecting," he admitted. Sam started walking towards the palace doors and continued. "And King Grif is hard to argue with, so you're coming with me if I leave the palace gates." Sarge frowned. "That seems more like it," he said under his breath.

"In any case, I'm going to kill time by foraging for herbs." Sam quickly ascended the stairs and went to his room to grab his bag. Sarge stopped in his tracks and watched him go.

Soon, they were both walking the trail that led to the forest and Sam was getting increasingly more agitated. He was gripping the strap on his bag like his life depended on it. Sarge glanced over and flipped up the visor on his helmet. He had on his usual set of light armor, but with the addition of the helmet.

"Are you... Okay?" Sarge asked warily. Sam nodded, but his movements were stiff and guarded. He was glaring at the tree line like something terrible lay just inside. Sarge stopped walking abruptly, causing Sam to turn his head sharply.

"If you don't want to go in the forest, you don't have to," Sarge said. Sam scoffed at him and crossed his arms. "I'm fine. I want to," he replied, but his tone wasn't nearly as biting as he intended. Sam started walking again, his arms still crossed indignantly. Sarge followed with a sigh. Sam was too stubborn.

* * *

 

"Just so you're aware," Sam began, just to fill the heavy silence that had surrounded them ever since they got to the forest. He glanced up at Sarge from where he was kneeled on the ground. "I don't think of you as a protector, more of a distraction." Sam pulled a small plant up from the ground, examined it for a moment and tossed it on the ground next to his bag. Sarge resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "You sure could use one of those," he mumbled.

"I don't _need_  a protector," Sam argued, his tone sounding dangerously like Simmons. He had head that conversation _one_  too many times. Sarge crossed his arms, the clanking sound of metal on metal reaching Sam's ears. "I meant a distraction. You've got your head in those books all day, or in some plant or other. You could take a break and look up."

Ah. So Sarge too had heard about the bookworm prince who liked nothing more than to keep to himself and get lost in the pages of his favorite stories. "I do look up. And it's always the same. Blue sky, white clouds. What's the point when things down here are so much more interesting?" Sam mumbled. He picked off a dead leaf from a small flowering plant and added it to the steadily growing pile.

"Hmmm, my eyes must be getting old then. I see a storm coming," Sarge said, the smallest hint of smugness creeping into his voice. He looked up over the treetops and used his hand to shield his eyes from the sunlight.

"A wha-" Sam stopped, his words stuck in his throat as a massive tearing sound broke the serene silence of the forest and rumbled far beyond the high canyon walls. Thunder. Sam turned his gaze skyward, focusing on the greyed sky and the huge, dark, rolling stormcloud hanging above them. It was beautiful. It was terrifying. It was--

Raining.

Large drops splattered Sam's face and he had to turn his head down again so he didn't get any in his eyes. He dropped the herbs he was holding and turned his palms towards the sky so he could catch the huge drops and feel the water on his hands.

Sam could feel laughter welling up in his throat, could feel his joy threatening to burst forth. But he couldn't. What kind of impression would that make upon his knight? The strong, stoic prince who laughs in the rain? No way.

So Sam pushed his laughter back down and simply basked in the warm rain, completely forgetting about anything else. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back up to the sky. It was calming, the erratic repetition of drop after drop of rain on his face.

He noticed movements in his peripheral vision and glanced over in time to see Sarge ease himself down onto the ground, one leg stretched out. He took off his helmet and let the rain wash over his face. His armor was shimmering with water now, soaking through the chinks and coloring his tunic an even darker red.

Sam spotted a small finch on the branch of a tree. It seemed to be having fun in the rain, tossing its little head about as if it were dancing. Sam felt his laughter bubbling up again. It was powerful. Who cared about impressions anyway?

The little bird was cute. Not to mention, Sarge had already seen him paralyzed with fear on the night of the masquerade ball. That wasn't the best impression he could have given. So who cared? Sam liked to laugh anyhow. He laughed at things that were funny. The bird was funny.

So he laughed. He laughed louder than was necessary. He laughed longer than was necessary. He laughed like he had just heard the funniest joke in the world, not like he had just seen a tiny bird dancing in the rain. He didn't just laugh, though. He pulled his hair out of the ponytail it was in, because if it dried like that Donut would have a fit.

He laughed until his sides hurt and he had to close his mouth because he was going to get water in it. And then he just smiled. He sat in the warm rain and smiled because he hadn't seen it months. He smiled because Felix was going to be gone the next day and because he knew King Grif liked the rain too.

He kept smiling even when he noticed that Sarge was staring at him. Even when another boom of thunder shook the ground and made them both jump. Sam looked over at Sarge and saw him cast a nervous glance up at the sky. When Sam turned back, the little bird was gone.

The rain provided nice background noise and almost lulled them both to sleep. The sky was a dark gray, the clouds indistinguishable from each other. And then the sky lit up with a blinding flash of white light and Sarge was on his feet in an instant. He dragged Sam up with him and uttered "lightning." Something akin to fear was in eyes.

Sam barely had time to grab his bag before Sarge was hauling him along by his arm at almost a full sprint. They skirted the edge of the forest for as long as they could before darting across the field and through the palace gates. Sam was never more thankful for the close proximity of the forest than in that moment. Well, maybe when he was bleeding out from his face.

Sarge wrenched open the doors and slipped inside, his breathing hard and helmet tucked under his arm. His hair was dripping wet and sending streaks of water down his chestplate. He looked in shock.

Sam leaned against the heavy door and caught his breath. "Were you... Scared?" he asked warily, turning his head to look at Sarge. Sarge was frowning at him. "No," he snapped. "Of course not. I'm not afraid of anything. I was thinking rationally. It's idiotic to be out in a lightning storm like that." Sam hummed in agreement. 

They were starting to get concerned looks from the palace staff so Sam beckoned for Sarge to follow and they ended up in a rarely used washroom drying themselves off. "Thank you for coming with me today," Sam said after Sarge had set his armor down on the floor.

"My pleasure. I haven't been out in the rain for a long time," Sarge replied with a faint smile. Sam crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. He tilted his head slightly. "Really? I'm guessing you haven't fled from lightning recently either?" he asked. Sarge turned his head to give him an unimpressed stare.

"It was a tactical retreat, and no. I'm not too keen on getting electrocuted," he answered. Sam snorted. "Neither am I. But you're more at risk with all that metal you were wearing," He said, tapping Sarge's chestplate with his fingernail. "I live and breath risk, Sam. It's in my blood," Sarge mumbled.

Sarge continued to dry off his armor in silence and Sam slowly migrated to the other side of the room where he laid out his herbs to dry. After the third clink of metal he heard, Sam whirled around and faced Sarge.

"Felix said there's someone after me," he said simply. Sarge didn't answer for a moment. He just sat with a neutral expression before standing up and brushing off his hands. "Wasn't _he_  after you?" Sarge asked. Sam shrugged. "He was, but he claims it was for a different reason. This person is trying to kill me," Sam clarified.

Sarge squinted at him and after a silence, asked "Wasn't _he_  trying to kill you?" Sam threw up his hands. "Yes! Yes he was. He says he wasn't but he _was_. And now there's someone else." Sam ran a hand through his still damp hair and sighed. He took a second to compose himself before looking back up at Sarge.

"I need you to protect me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the misleading summary, but this fic is rated teen lol. And Sam FINALLY starts being sensible, yay! Still taking questions in the comments if you're interested!
> 
> -
> 
> Don't forget to leave a comment, they mean the world to me! ❤❤❤


	7. Interlude | More Information

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam has a few more things he wants to know before Simmons takes Felix and straight up drop kicks the bitch out of his kingdom.
> 
> Heads up, there is a small amount of blood in this chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wassup my bois? Have this fuckin' disgusting piece of shit before we get back to our regularly scheduled program :u
> 
> Sorry this is so goddamn short. But I wrote what I wrote, so who gives a flying fuck, eh?

Sam loved exploring the palace in the late hours of the night. It was peaceful and quiet and dark. He always took a candle with him, however, never having been fond of what _could be_  in the shadows.

His bare footsteps sounded dull on the cold stone steps leading to the dungeons. With every step he took, he started to regret his decision more and more. But he couldn't go back. Now was his only chance to speak with Felix before his exile.

Sam reached the bottom of the staircase and took a deep breath. He didn't bother sheilding the candlelight from Felix as he banged his fist on the cell bars a few times to wake him up.

Felix frowned long before he opened his eyes. When he did, the frown remained. "What the hell are you doing down here, Sam?" Felix demanded, squinting against the pale candlelight. Sam sighed.

"Where can I find this- this man, who's trying to kill me?" Sam asked. Felix rubbed his eyes and gave Sam a look of distaste.

"Why would I tell you?" was his retort. Of course. It was just like him to answer a question with another question. Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. He was too tired for Felix's games.

"I'll- I'll give you something you want," Sam conceded. He could see Felix's eyes light up. "Within reason, Felix. I'm not letting you out... Or giving you a knife," Sam finished.

Felix huffed. "Fine. Be like that," he whined, sticking his tongue out at Sam. After a moment of silence, Felix rolled his eyes. "He's a baker," was all that was said.

Sam frowned. "He's- he's a baker?" Felix nodded. "Yeah. Like, as a job?" He said slowly, as if the concept of working for money was too difficult a concept for Sam to grasp.

"Where?" Sam demanded, showing as much venom into the word as he could, just to show that he _really_  didn't want to be there. Felix let out a sigh.

"I thought you had to give me something I wanted first?" Felix asked, feigning innocence. Sam closed his eyes and took another steadying breath. "Alright," he said. "What do you want?" Sam asked, stifling a yawn.

Felix didn't hesitate before scrambling to his feet and rushing to the cell door. "A kiss," he hissed. Sam choked on air. He stared for a moment, watching the flickering candlelight warping Felix's shadow against the back wall.

"Why?" He asked. The solitary word filled the emptiness of the room with a fake sort of noise. Felix's face, which was already sporting a lazy smirk, turned into one of pure, annoying amusement.

"Why? Because I want a kiss, Sam. Just because," Felix said as he gripped the cell bars. Sam instinctively took a step back. Fuck, how had he gotten into this? All he wanted was info.

Of course, he could always just leave. He could always rely on himself to be able to find out where Sharkface was. But he might not even be in Blood Gulch. He could be in a completely different country, biding his time until he found the perfect moment. Sam couldn't be sure.

Felix must've sensed Sam's hesitation because his smile got wider and gave Sam a terribly patronizing look.

"Awww, Sam. What're you so afraid of? You-" he stopped, cutting himself off with a chuckle. "You  _have_  kissed someone before, right?" he asked, humor leaking into his voice.

Sam glared daggers at him. "Of course I have," he spat, appalled at the very thought that _Felix_  would be his first. He wouldn't be. Sam wasn't lying. Even if it was only his tailor, it still counted. He just didn't get out very often, not for that kind of thing.

Felix softened his smile. "Then come here," he said. Despite the gentle tone, it still sounded demanding and venomous. Sam set the candle on the floor and stepped closer to the bars.

He hesitated for a moment more, his feet stopping mere centimeters from the cell door. It was just a kiss. Not a big deal. After all, how bad could it be, right? Pretty bad.

Sam stepped up to the bars and flinched only slightly when Felix took his face in his hands and landed a rough, albeit very clumsy kiss square on his lips. Felix's mouth was dry. Being kept in a cell for two days with minimal sustenance didn't do him any good. He didn't deserve hydration, anyway.

Felix seemed to be particularly fond of biting Sam's lip until it bled, which earned him a violent shove and a few quiet curses. Sam held his hand gingerly to his mouth while he sent a glare Felix's way.

He looked down at the floor where a small pool of blood had formed. The candlelight wasn't strong enough to show the color, so it seemed that black ink was dripping from his mouth.

"So?" Sam spat, grimacing at the metallic taste of blood. He hated that taste of blood. "Where does he work?" Sam questioned, getting back to the topic at hand.

He chanced a look at Felix, who had pinned him with a faux innocent smile. "I don't know," he said, finishing it off with a shrug of his shoulders. Sam took a shuddering breath and summoned every ounce of self-control he had so he didn't toss the candle in among all the dry straws heaped in Felix's cell.

He settled on asking "You what?" in a dangerously level voice. Felix hummed. "I don't know where he works. Thanks for the kiss, good night!" he called, waving to Sam before retreating to the corner of his cell and curling up to sleep.

Sam released the most aggravated breath he could recall. He had barely gathered any information from Felix. But, at least it was something. It was a start, a lead. He could work with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I'd totally deck Felix if any of y'all asked me to. I mean, I love the guy. He was my fave of the trash merc duo but that dude is a sick son of a bitch and he needs to learn some M A N N E R S .
> 
> Hey... I love y'all. Thanks so much for reading this. Don't forget to comment! Tell me what you liked, what you didn't like or maybe just ask me a random question if you want? I wanna hear your feedback, my lovely readers! ❤❤❤


	8. Chapter Five | The Shark Appears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam says hello to an old acquaintance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoaaaa this chapter's a bit longer...
> 
> I hate writing the word 'Sharkface'. I really do. It's so stupid, I can't NOT laugh. So I try to use it as minimally as I can.
> 
> Not much Sarge in this chapter, sorry about that... To be fair, I did say this was a slow burn, and it sure a hell is a slow burn. BUT! Next chapter will be 90% Sarge and Sam. Just them. The other 10% is, of course, the best dads/kings, Grif and Simmons because they can't be forgotten lol.

After the particularly traumatizing and stressful time he spent trying to glean more information out of Felix before his exiling, Sam made sure he wasn't anywhere near the man when he was hauled away to who-knows-where.

King Simmons came and found him in his room after they finished and told him Felix was gone. Sam gave him a feeble smile that disintegrated as soon as Simmons had closed the door behind him.

After an idle few minutes, Sam left his room and went to find Sarge. He needed something to get his mind off the fact that even though Felix was _gone_  now, he was still... Free. He could come back. Sure, it would be dangerous, but Sam knew how he liked to hold a grudge. He'd do damn near anything to get what he wanted.

And if Felix wanted a third try to kill Sam (or worse), he'd take the risk.

Sam opened his closet and sent an inadvertent glare at the fox mask that was _still_  shoved in the back corner. He quickly grabbed his favorite deep violet vest off the hangar and closed the closet door a bit harder than he should have. Once he had dressed, he headed out of his bedroom and down the hall.

Sam had thankfully managed to get Felix to tell him where the man called Sharkface was. Sam still hated the name, and couldn't say it out loud without fear of laughing.

It turned out, Sharkf- the man supposedly trying to kill him was employed as a baker. Sam was grateful for what he knew, however little it was. He figured he would start locally. There were only a few bakeries in the city proper, all of which sold their goods at the weekend market.

So what better way to investigate than to go to the market? For strictly business purposes, of course... Oh, who was Sam kidding? He just wanted bread.

Thankfully, Sarge was in the first place Sam looked. he was carefully putting his armor back on in the laundry room they had retreated- uh, strategically fled to during the lightning storm the day before.

He had his back to the doorway and was just fastening his greaves. Sam wondered what dye he could have possibly used to get his clothes such a vibrant red.

"Sarge?" Sam asked timidly, drumming his fingers on the doorway. Sarge straightened up and craned his neck to look at Sam. "Oh, what can I do for you?" Sarge asked. Sam took a step into the room and noted the odd scent of pine oil in the air.

"I want to go into town," he said, watching Sarge pull his breastplate over his head. He got a grunt in response. "Now?" Sarge asked. Sam gave an indifferent shrug.

"Time isn't an immediate constraint, but the market closes at noon," Sam said. He guessed it was about nine in the morning. No wonder he felt so tired. Meeting Felix the night before left him restless. He had spent too long staring at himself in the mirror and making sure his lip wouldn't start bleeding again.

Sarge perked up at the mention of the market. "Is there food?" he asked, giving an extra tug to his sword belt. Sam nodded. "It's mostly food. Pastries, produce, livestock. The occasional sweets vendor. Sometimes there will be a man, blind in one eye, who sells seashells and crystals from the distant coast." He smiled at the memory of that man.

The last time Sam remembered him at the market was the first year anniversary of his adoption. The kings decided to take him to the market and let him pick something out.

The man had been nice, a jokester of sorts. He had made quips about his vision the whole time and Sam had gotten sidetracked by the man's falcon, Delta. 

Shaken out of his memory by the distinct sound of metal sliding against rock, Sam jolted. For a moment he expected to see Felix but it was only Sarge sharpening his dagger. Sam let out a breath. He really _had_  been messed up from Felix.

Five minutes later, Sarge was following closely behind Sam as they began the short and very quiet walk to the city. It was already bustling with lively voices and loud footsteps and clinking coins by the time they got there.

It took all of Sam's self-control to keep him from stopping every five seconds to look at everything. But... He was on business. There would be time to look _after_  he made sure what Felix said was _wrong_. Because the last thing he wanted was to prove Felix right. And, he didn't want to be hunted, of course.

Sam wove through the crowd, mostly following his nose in search of a baker's stand. He found one after a short time looking, one he hadn't seen before. Sam grabbed Sarge by the arm and walked over to the stand, ready to introduce himself and _not_  get killed. It didn't take him long to recognize the face of the man Felix had described.

* * *

 

The baker had indeed been in the same orphanage as Sam, all those years ago but he couldn't for the life of him remember what his name was. Sam sincerely doubted that, if he was the man in question, that his real name was Sharkface. It was too outlandish.

The man looked up from where he was carefully shaping a loaf of seeded bread. He took in Sam's tall stature, his perfect posture, the expensive and expertly tailored clothing and the intimidating, if a bit short knight that stood by him. It didn't take a genius to recognize the prince.

"What do _you_  want?" The baker demanded, his nose scrunched up in disgust. Sam's eyes widened for a moment. It wasn't his rudeness, although that was startling too. No, the man had a huge scar stretching across the entire left side of his face. His lips and eye had taken the most damage. The intense scarring made him look like he wore a perpetual snarl. He looked rough, much worse than Sam himself.

Sam felt bad for him, but if Felix's info was correct (and he was skeptical) then this man was trying to kill him. Sam straightened his posture and started to answer the baker's question. Sarge caught him off guard, however. He stepped forward and put his arm out in front of Sam.

"Is that any way to treat your customers?" Sarge asked, his voice sharp and accusatory. The baker dusted some excess flour off his hands and folded them carefully across his chest.

"Customers? You're not here to buy something, I can tell," The baker said, a badly hidden smirk playing across his face. Sarge huffed quietly to himself and Sam put a hand on his arm.

"Perceptive," Sam dead panned, even though he was genuinely impressed. The baker shrugged, as if saying 'it's one of my talents'. He peeked behind Sam and frowned. Sam glanced behind him and upon seeing a sizable line of people, moved aside and let them pass.

The baker shook his head disapprovingly. Sam didn't leave, however. He simply stood by the tent and waited until the baker had time to speak. It didn't take long. He clearly didn't like the not so subtle looks Sarge was giving him and heaved a huge sigh.

The baker beckoned for Sam to follow him and he headed behind the tent. "Mason, watch the stand please," he called over his shoulder to a man with short black hair. He nodded good-naturedly and waved to the baker as he left.

"... So, what do you want?" The baker said, a hint of resignation in his voice as he sat down on the grass and stretched his legs out. Sam sat down too, cross legged and the fact that Sarge remained standing didn't go unnoticed by either of the other two.

"I take it you don't like me very much?" Sam said in an attempt to dispel the tension. He got a less than satisfactory response. The baker huffed unhappily, releasing a small puff of flour into the air.

"I don't like anyone. I don't care if you're the Prince." Sam's eyebrows shot up his forehead. He didn't think the man had any semblance of self-preservation. Not many people dared speak negatively about the royal family, no matter how benevolent they were. "Do you remember me?" Sam asked instead, steering the topic away from his status. 

"... Should I know the prince? I am but a lowly baker," he said, brushing off breadcrumbs from his apron. His posture betrayed his disinterested tone. Hunched shoulders, guarded gaze. Even his feet sat flat on the ground, ready to stand up and flee. The baker was used to running.

"When I was young, I was housed in an orphanage. The same one you were in," Samuel started, hoping to get the man to open up more. "I'm Samuel," he finished. That got a reaction out of the man. He pinned Sam with a deep gaze and after a moment of searching his face, recognition hit him like a brick to the face.

"You are! Wow. Still here, huh. I never knew where you went. You just kind of... Disappeared one day," The man went on. He was sitting up straighter now. More alert but more open. His shoulders were relaxed, his hands occupied with lavish gestures.

"Well, I'm here," Sam noted, a hint of amusement to his voice. The baker shook his head. "I can't believe it's you. You know, I always wondered where you went off to. Some nights, I'd sit at the window and wonder if you lived with the bright palace lights." He smiled, remembering all those years ago.

"Felix owes me money," he continued. "I bet him you went to the palace and he thought it was the most absurd idea he'd ever heard." Sam hated to derail the baker's stroll down memory lane, but he was there for... Business.

"Speaking of Felix," Sam started. "Are you working with him?" The baker gave Sam an incredulous look. "I didn't even know he was alive. I haven't seen him in at least ten years." Sam sat still and waited for a proper answer. "No, I'm not working with him," The baker said with a sigh.

Sam nodded, satisfied with the answer. He cast a quick glance up at Sarge, who gave him a stiff shrug, then went on to his next question. "Are you trying to kill me?"

The man got, if possible, more confused. "What? No. Why would I try to kill you? You, or your knight, could snap me in half like a twig," he said, gesturing to Sarge, who nodded quietly, as if impressed by the baker's perception.

"Probably," Sam conceded. Tha baker was muscular, but he wasn't going to deny his own strength. Or Sarge's, for that matter. He saw how he had handled Felix like a literal sack of potatoes. "How did you get that scar?" Sam asked the baker.

The man immediately shut off. His hands sat idle in his lap, but Sam could tell he desperately wanted something to do with them. "I'll tell you only if you do the same," the baker said, eyeing Sam's face for any sign of disapproval. All he got was mild surprise.

"How did you kno-" Sam started. "I've tried to cover mine up too. I like to think by now I know what it looks like," the man retorted.

"Felix did this to me," Sam resigned. He felt his shoulders slump and the memory. The baker gave a thin-lipped smirk, not at Sam's pain, though. "Ha. Funny, he did this-" He gestured to his ragged face, "to me." Sam quietly acknowledged it with a small nod.

"Where is he, by the way? Clearly you've talked to him recently," the baker asked. Sam chewed nervously at his lip. He didn't really know what to tell and what not to.

The other man who had been manning the stall came over then, carrying a loaf of bread. He nudged the baker's shoulder and gave him the bread. "It fell on the ground," he muttered with a shrug. The baker thanked him and tore off a piece.

"What?" he asked through a mouthful of bread. Sam shook his head, not aware that he had been staring. It wasn't his fault he hadn't eaten. He blamed Felix. The whole reason (part of it, at least) he had come to the market was for fresh bread.

"So? Where is Felix?" the baker asked as he tore off half the loaf of bread and handed it to Sam, who took it with a nod of thanks. 

"He's been exiled," Sam answered, biting into the bread. It was amazing. Just the right ratio of crunchy crust to soft interior.

"Oh. What for?" the man asked, arching his eyebrow. Sam sighed. "Two counts of attempted murder... Among other things." He gazed down at the grass and tangled his fingers in it.

"Holy shit. He really got the short end of the stick, eh?" The man said, snorting. "Serves him right," he added. Sam couldn't argue with that. It _did_  serve him right.

"So you- are you done? Just wanted to come here and ask me if I want to kill you?" The baker asked. He finished his bread and dusted off his hands. Sam nodded. "Yes. Just that."

The man nodded and began to stand up. However, he stopped himself just short and looked Sam straight in the eyes. "I _don't_  want to kill you. Just to be clear." He held his hands out in a placating way. Sam smiled.

"Good. Because, I know we were never friends... And honestly I don't know you that well, but I don't want to see you get hurt," Sam said, his voice soft.

"I'm touched," the baker said, a hint of sarcasm making its way into his words. Sam huffed. "And I'm serious. You are the only person I've met who knows... What it's like having to deal with Felix." Sam cracked a dry smile. "And I value your friendship, if you're willing." He held out his hand to the man, who took it readily. He had a strong grip.

"Thanks," the baker said simply.

Sam smiled at him again. "Stay safe, uh... I'm not going to call you Sharkface, do you have any-" The man held up his hand. "Please and thank you, _never_  call me that. It was Felix's idea of a joke, the sick bastard. My name is Terrance Ephemera." He stepped back and managed a clumsy half bow.

Sam returned the bow, his much more refined. "A pleasure. I'm Samuel," he said. There wasn't much of a need for introductions on his part, but it never hurt to be polite.

"No last name?" Terrance asked, flashing him an amused smile. His smile was nice. It was genuine, the way only the one of someone who smiled rarely could be.

"I don't know which to pick." Sam admitted, shrugging. He didn't particularly want to hyphenate his name. 'Samuel Grif-Simmons' didn't really roll of the tongue.

"Ah," the maker muttered. There was a stretch of silence that fell over them like a wool blanket, one that was only interrupter by an ear-splitting whistle from the other baker, Mason. Terrance turned his head to see him wildly moving his arms about, gesturing to the line of customers. "I'm sorry, I have to get back to work," Terrance said as he started back towards the tent.

Sam watched him go and offered a small wave. After a second, he called after Terrance. "Don't expect this to be the last you see of me!" he said. 

"Why's that?" Terrance asked. Sam held up his remaining heel of bread. "This is the best bread I've ever had the pleasure of eating," Sam said. Terrance gave him another one of his genuine smiles. "Thank you... So much."

"Until next time, Terrance." Sam said, content to wait until next weekend and see him again. Terrance nodded. "You too, Samuel. I'm glad you're not dead. It's nice to have someone who shares the experiences of that orphanage." He sent Sam a wave and turned back to the stall where he was immediately bombarded by customers and the occasional quip from Mason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No no, Siris isn't just a throwaway character in this. He gonna be impORTANT. (But srsly tho, what animal should he be?)
> 
> Don't forget to leave a comment and tell me what you think of this so far! I'm always open to suggestions! ❤❤❤


	9. Chapter Six | The Lion Speaks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sarge's thoughts on the... Eventful day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? The Sarge POV chapter I promised? You bet your ass it is. And it's also got... Some other things. Important things. Let's just say you don't want to skip this chapter because Things Happen. Lots of Things.

Of all the things Samuel could have asked Sarge to do, he wanted to be accompanied to the market. Of course, his job _was_  to protect the prince. That was what he promised that day in the laundry room, still damp from the rain and staring into those stormy gray eyes, framed by dark hair.

And now he was standing in a line at the market casting suspicious glances around because he kept his promises. Not because he had been swayed by the way Sam's eyes looked just like the sky that day. Not because he was curious to know why Sam had a split lip.

Sarge didn't expect to play a big part in Sam's conversation with the scarred baker. He really hoped the man didnt turn out to be an assassin so he wouldn't have to slice him to bits. It had been a while since he'd used his sword properly but it would make a scene and he wasn't keen on murdering innocent civilians. He didn't really pay attention to the words spoken, just watched the baker's body language.

The relief that washed over him when Sam bid his new- old- friend goodbye couldn't be described easily. He was just glad for it to be over. Big crowds like the market were perfect places for an ambush. As he followed Sam back towards the palace, Sarge noticed him stifle a yawn. He was tired. Sarge could see the way his mouth stretched, straining the partially healed cut in his lip.

Sarge caught himself staring and quickly looked away. He didn't know why. He didn't have to look away, Sam hadn't noticed him... He didn't want to address it. Sam was tired. Yes. Maybe he could convince the prince to take a nap? It probably wasn't even noon, but the clouds in the sky made the light shift and his mind was tricked. He couldn't remember what time it was, how long he'd been awake and then his thoughts started to wander.

Maybe he could find the time to send a letter to Florida. He would like the flowers in the atrium. Sarge remided himself to press some flowers for Florida. His gaze fell to the ground and he watched the dirt go by. Right foot, left foot, right foot, left- what time was it? Really, what time was it? Why was the sky such a milky color? Why was the light so dim and fuzzy? Why did that huge cloud look an almost electric blue? It was sharp and unnatural.

"You know you _can_  walk beside me." The prince's deep voice cut into Sarge's thoughts like a well-sharpened knife. He was so surprised he almost stumbled over a protruding root. Sarge stayed quiet for a second and let his heart slow down. Sam didn't slow his pace, Sarge didn't speed up.

"I know," he finally said. His tone made it seem like he was going to continue, but honestly he was so out of it you couldn't have payed him to finish his sentence. Sam noticed the way his hands clenched and unclenched around the hilt of his sword, the movements uncertain and wary.

"... You're not going to?" Sam asked, looking over his shoulder at Sarge. Sarge shook his head minutely, partially as an answer and partially to try and dispel the sudden sleepiness he was experiencing.

"Alright then." Sam slowed his steps until he was shoulder-to-shoulder with Sarge. The height difference made it more shoulder-to-bicep, though.  A few times Sam's hand got dangerously close to brushing Sarge's which was still gripping his sword. He could feel the warmth and it wasn't doing any good for his already foggy mind.

The silence became too much for Sarge and he let out a frustrated grunt. That earned him an eyebrow raise from Sam. "How did you split your lip, Sam?" Sarge asked, panicking. A Masterful Save™. Sam swiveled his head around and almost stopped walking. His eyes were wide, borderline frantic. "I didn't," he choked out, the lie sounding bitter on his tongue.

"Don't lie. It's obvious," Sarge said, standing up straighter and willing whatever weirdness was happening to him to _kindly fuck off_. The feeling did dissipate somewhat, clearing his head enough to listen properly and stay awake.

Sam grimaced. "It is? Sigh. Fine. I-" he paused for a fraction of a second. It shouldn't have been noticeable to anyone, but Sarge had the feeling he was coming up with an excuse. "I ran into a doorframe?" he said, his words sounding like a question. Yep, totally an excuse.

"You ran into a doorframe," Sarge deadpanned, squinting in the milky light to see how far they had left to walk. He could see the palace gates not a hundred yards ahead. Sarge let out a silent breath of relief. As soon as he got back, he would go lie down.

"It was late at night, I couldn't see," Sam said defensively. Whoops, Sarge had completely forgotten that he was still having a conversation. "Why were you up so late?" he asked. Sam paused for a second too long before opening his mouth and practically whispering "I can't remember."

Sam stopped dead in his tracks and nervously messed with his sleeves, trying to pull them as far over his hands as they would go. "I can't remember what I was doing so late last night." He sounded almost scared. "I'm sure it was something important," he mumbled. Sam started walking again, faster than before and Sarge had to speed-walk to keep up.

He was mumbling to himself as they (finally) walked through the gates and up to the heavy double doors. Sam was distracted, ticking things off on his fingers and tapping his chin methodically. Sarge took that to mean that he was absorbed in thought and it would be the perfect time to sneak off to his room and sleep for the rest of the day, however long that may be.

His stomach had other plans. His stomach wanted him to know, in the form of a very loud gurgling, that he hadn't eaten anything all day and that he should get on that immediately. Sarge winced at the sound and hoped to any and all gods that Sam hadn't heard.

He had, of course. Why wouldn't he? Sam turned on his heel and shot a wild glance at Sarge, who was halfway up the stairs. Sam jogged up to him and stood on the step below him, their faces level.

"Have you eaten today?" Sam asked, his voice playful and suspicious all at the same time. Sarge tapped a finger against the pommel of his sword. "No," he mumbled, the sleepiness washing over him again. He widened his feet, anchored himself on the stairs so he wouldn't fall over.

"Why not?" Sam asked, sounding like a mother. Sarge wrinkled his nose and gave Sam an undignified snort. "Because you dragged me to the market so early," he grumbled. Sam furrowed his brow, his chin tilted up defiantly. "It wasn't that early when we went. I thought you had been up for hours," he admitted. Sarge waved him off with a gesture, wordlessly saying 'never mind'. "What time is it now?" he asked instead, effectively dropping the topic.

"It must be almost noon," Sam guessed, shooting a glance out a nearby window. Sarge followed his gaze. He could see the way the sky was still milky but there was _one cloud_ shimmering blue, almost pulsating. It entranced him, pulled him away from the reality he was standing in and he almost forgot what he was doing when Sam's voice once again snapped him out of it. His honey-smooth tones were like an anchor.

"Come on, you need to eat something before you pass out," Sam said, beckoning Sarge to follow him. He was already at the bottom of the stairs when Sarge finally got back control of his legs and took the steps two at a time to catch up. Sam took a sharp left turn and Sarge completely missed it. He really needed food. And a nap.

"The kitchen is this way. I'll find you something delicious," Sam said, grabbing Sarge's hand and leading him through the halls. Sarge's entire arm tensed up at the contact. "What food do you like? We have nearly everything, Dad is somehow the least and most picky about his meals," Sam said once the silence became unbearable.

"Dad?" Sarge asked, taken aback by the casual term. He had never heard Sam call either of the kings 'Dad' before. Sam faltered, his eyes flicking nervously around. "Oh- I uh. I mean King Grif," he corrected himself quickly. "You're awfully talkative today," Sarge observed. Hooray, he should have gotten the award for stating the obvious.

Sam loosened his grip on Sarge's hand. "Am I? I apologize. I must still be excited from meeting Terrance," he offered. Sarge shook his head. "Don't apologize, I like your voice," he admitted quietly.

Sam laughed once, loudly. "Oh, you won't after you hear me talk about teas. At least, Simmons says that. I think he gets bored after a few minutes. I appreciate his trying to show interest, but someone needs to tell him he doesn't need to force himself into something unenjoyable just for me." Sam was mostly talking to himself at that point and Sarge trailed behind him, still led by Sam's hand.

Sam took a turn down a hall and slowed down. He glanced back at Sarge and sent him a sheepish smile. "Sorry. I'm rambling. This doesn't happen often, I promise. I've just been- been sort of out of it all day," he said. Sarge hummed thoughtfully. "Me too," he said. Sam looked surprised. His grip tightened almost imperceptibly. "What?" he asked.

Sarge nodded. "I couldn't tell what time it was, got lost in my own head and I nearly punched you in the teeth for grabbing my hand," he said, looking away. Sam released his hand so quickly his wrist probably got whiplash. "What do you think it is?" he asked seriously. 

Sarge shook his head. "Honestly, I don't know. It could be anything." He had thought about it, what could be the cause of his strangeness. Plain old fatigue was the most plausible reason he could come up with. Sarge crossed his arms, silently mourning the loss of Sam's warmth.

Wait.

Where did that come from? Since when did he actually _enjoy_ other people's warm, clammy hands? ~~Except Sam's hands weren't clammy.~~

Sam started walking again and Sarge followed closely. "We should go talk to Simmons after you eat, maybe he knows something. After all, he has a library that takes up the entire south wing. Grif keeps complaining that it takes all the good natural light," Sam said, his tone lighter than before.

Sarge had been frowning for a while now. "Something is very wrong," he mused. "You really are rambling. Since when have you been so open?" Sarge asked. Sam looked like he had been backed into a verbal corner. He opened his mouth to speak, but silently let out a breath of relief when they finally reached the kitchen.

"Ah, here we are," Sam said, motioning for Sarge to go in. To say the kitchen was large would be a severe understatement. It was massive. The kitchen staff tallied in the double digits. There was enough food being prepared to feed everyone who lived in the palace and then some. People from the city would regularly visit for a meal. It made the place more lively.

Sam wove his way through the controlled chaos of the kitchen and Sarge almost reached out for his hand again, he was so sure he'd get lost. Sam led him to a stove near the back of the room where someone was cooking something that smelled heavenly. Sarge instantly recognized the man tending to the food.

Those who lived in the palace only knew him as Lopez. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man who spoke little. When he did, it was in a foreign tongue that no one understood save for King Grif who learned it for his sake and Sam. But Sam hadn't learned it. He instinctively knew what Lopez was saying, which only made him wonder more about where he came from. And it also made Sarge wonder.

The way Lopez tensed up when he entered the kitchen didn't go unnoticed by either of them. The way he put on a less than genuine smile didn't either. Sam went out of his way to be courteous to Lopez but nothing helped. The man was terrified of Sam, anyone could see that. And when Sam used that foreign language, not only did he not know what they were saying, but he could hear the way Lopez's voice took on an almost robotic tone. Like he was ashamed of the fact that he could speak it and was _trying_ to butcher the pronunciation. 

Sam spoke to Lopez in the foreign language for a few seconds, got a sigh and a short clipped answer and waited while Lopez filled a bowl with soup from a nearby pot. Sam took the bowl and handed it to Sarge. He grabbed a small loaf of bread as they left and offered the larger half to Sarge.

His soup was delicious. He didn't quite know what was in it, probably some rosemary, definitely potatoes. Sarge ate in silence on the front steps while Sam tossed a small rock from hand to hand. It was excruciating to watch him so clearly restless but still willing to sit and wait.

Sarge finished his soup as quickly as he could and pulled Sam up with him as he stood. "Alright. Let's go see King Simmons," he urged. Sam nodded resolutely and tucked the rock in his pocket as they both headed across the palace to the southern side library.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost scrapped this entire chapter because the boys were SO out of character, but then I had an epiphany which will be explained in the next few chapters.
> 
> (Fun fact, the first bit comes directly from my own experiences with being tired and exhausted and hungry and not knowing what the fuck time of day it is, or what week it is or what I'm doing with my life... Am I crazy?)
> 
> I love you all so much that you're going to get a few consistent chapter updates! Yay! Check in during the next _three_ Saturdays for these boys slowly falling in love! I hope this makes up for the severe lack of GD recently, I've been working on... Other things (i.e. Universe One, Wolf 359 shit, Grimmons, making a ton more AUs, SAT practice, freaking out about season 16 [no first spoilers]). And maybe this buffer I've built up will help me keep updates closer together.
> 
> Don't forget to leave a comment! Tell me what you think! ❤❤❤


	10. Chapter Seven | The Goat Helps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons and a friend provide some insight into the weirdness of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised more Grif and Simmons in the last chapter, but I lied so hard. Here's them in this chapter, though. Have fun! Also, e x p o s i t i o n.
> 
>  
> 
> **TW: There is some blood in this chapter and a bit of violence. Stay safe, love y'all ❤**

If anyone else noticed the way the clouds had turned more and more electric blue, they didn't say anything. By the time Sam and Sarge got to Simmons' library, the floor-to-ceiling windows had a great view of the unusual weather. Simmons himself was standing in front of one wearing a regal frown.

"What happened to the clouds?" he wondered aloud when he heard the doors open. Sam cleared his throat quietly as he met Simmons at the window. "I'm not sure," he admitted. "It is odd." Simmons looked over at Sam, who had been joined by Sarge and took a step back.

"What brings you here? In search of knowledge?" he asked. They both nodded in tandem. "Something odd has been going on," Sarge said. "I've been feeling slow all day. My mind's been jumbled." Sam hummed. "Me too. And I can't help but feel the clouds are connected."

Simmons clasped his hands behind his back and looked back out the window. "Those clouds are eerily familiar. They might be in one of my books," he said, beckoning for them to follow him. He headed to one of the bookshelf-covered walls and scanned the titles for a second. "Look for anything with 'Magic' in the title," he said.

Sarge frowned. "Magic?" he asked incredulously. "Isn't magic fake? A fairy tale to trick little children into thinking they can be anything only to discover that they can't and so they join the army because there's nothing else for them?"

Simmons stared at Sarge for a few seconds, squinting, before pinching the bridge of his nose. "Okay, I'm ignoring whatever that was. _No,_ magic isn't fake. It's just extremely rare. Only people who are very intelligent or creative or passionate or- or something, I can't remember. Anyway, people who have something to give have magic."

Simmons dragged a rolling ladder out from where it was shoved against the wall and started to climb it. "I don't know many people who have magic but I've read plenty about it," he shouted from fifteen feet up the ladder. Sam stood under him just in case. He was getting old, anyway. He could fall.

"I know that everyone has a certain- feeling to their magic. A different color to their magical energy too," Simmons said, waving his hand around for effect. He ran his fingers over the spines of a few worn red books and picked out two of them. "I've seen that blue before, but he doesn't make clouds glow," he muttered, mostly to himself.

Sarge took the books from Simmons when he got down the ladder with falling and he set them down on a large decorative table in the middle of the room. It reminded him of the war room table in Valhalla he had seen when he visited. Sam picked up one of the books, titled 'Magic: Classes, Colors, Consequences.' He thumbed through the pages to the first chapter.

_Basic Magic Facts_

_Magic is a rare and extraordinary power. One in two hundred are endowed with it. Magic is still a very mysterious thing, there is so much we don't know. But the beauty of it is we know so much. Magic is given to those with something to offer the world. Wether it be boundless knowledge to help the clueless or the manifestation of weapons or shields to save a village under attack, if the individual wishes to help the world, magic can give them the means._

_Now, this certainly doesn't mean that the individual's ideals can't change. Of course there's always the chance that the power will go to their head and corrupt them. Their magic will stay. It stays with them for life, no matter what they do with it. Magic can be wondrous and the Magican can be a savior to so many but it is too easy to let it consume you and lose sight of why you earned the magic to begin with._

_If you, dear reader, are a magician I urge you to stay true to your ideals. Remember why you have it. Remember what you want to give the world and hold on to that. Don't risk losing everything you have and more._

Sam looked up from reading and glanced over at Sarge. He was frowning into the pages of a thick book titled "Magic Powers and You". Simmons walked over carrying six more books and dropped them on the table, sending a small cloud of old dust into the air. He coughed twice.

"Father, why do you have so many books on magic?" Sam asked, closing the book and setting it mush more gently back on the table. Simmons sighed, brushed off the cover of a navy blue book, "The Colors of the Soul," and carefully folded his hands on the table. "Someone very close to me has magic," he said quietly.

Sam froze for an instant. His mind was working at a million miles an hour. Sam knew that tone. It was soft and caring and he always used it when he talked about Grif. Someone very close to him. Simmons may not admit it often, but it was hard for him to let anyone close. He was always irrationally afraid that he'd leave someone behind.

"Dad has magic?" Sam breathed. Simmons made a little jolt. He unclasped his hands. Clasped them again. "Uh..." There was a pause. A thump as Sarge let the book he was holding drop to the table. "Yeah," Simmons finally finished. Sarge stood up from the table. "Yes, he does have magic. But he doesn't like to talk about it... Or use it very often," Simmons said.

Sam was in shock. He- Grif had magic? Why did he never know? That was usually something you told people... Or at the very least alluded to. King Grif was funny and caring and had abandonment issues but he didn't seem like a magician. What did he have to offer the world?

Sam glanced over at Sarge to get his input. Sarge was standing rigidly next to the table. He was glaring at Sam. "Sarge?" Sam asked warily. Sarge snarled at him. He grabbed his shorts word and drew it in one fluid motion. It was pointed at Sam's chest within a moment and Simmons let out a strangled shout. Sam held his hands up. They were shaking.

He felt a strange sense of déjà vu (the forest, ten years ago, Felix). Blades did that to him, specifically if they were being pointed straight at him. Sam opened his mouth to speak, slowly and carefully. "Sarge. What are you doing." It came out as less of a question than he had wanted.

"No, what are _you_ doing? To think they've let the enemy inside the palace gates! Who are the incompetent knights that allowed you to get so close to the King?" Sarge demanded, the sheer volume of his voice scaring Simmons out of his chair and towards the door. Sarge only gave him a passing glance.

"Tell me your nefarious plans or I'll turn you into shish kebab!" Sarge shouted. Sam flinched. "I-" He took a deep breath. "I don't have any nefarious plans, I assure you," Sam said. Sarge narrowed his eyes at him. "You're lying," he stated.

Sam's hands were getting tired. He didn't like holding them up for so long. "Sarge. I don't know what's wrong with you, but it probably has something to do with the blue clouds outside." Sam pointed both his hands towards the windows and the clouds beyond. Sam stared out at them for a while.

"There's nothing wrong with me. The clouds are fine," Sarge said. "You are an intruder and I have to deal with you for the sake of the kings and this fine country!" he shouted. Sam stepped out of range of his sword. Was Sarge _out of his mind?_ What was he doing?

Sarge took Sam's sidestep as an act of war. He lunged forward and slashed at Sam's legs. Sam jumped back and hit the table behind him. Perfect. Assume the high ground. Sam scrambled backwards onto the table and stood up, his stance wide. Sarge wasn't intimidated. He grabbed Sam's ankle and pulled hard, sending Sam crashing down onto the table.

Sam's head slammed down on the wood. His vision swam. Meanwhile, Sarge was gearing up to slit his throat. Sam got ahold of the swords' hilt and twisted it out of Sarge's grip. He kicked it as far as he could and heard it clatter across the floor. Sarge snarled incoherently and curled his hands into tight fists. Sam did the same.

It turned out Sarge was outstanding in hand-to-hand combat. He had the advantage of being smaller than Sam and therefore quicker. Sarge aimed for his gut mostly and Sam was sure he was going to bruise. Sarge landed more than a few kicks to his shins which slowed him down even more. All he could to was block Sarge's vicious attacks. He got a clean punch to the face which unfortunately re-opened the cut on his lip.

Sam got angry after that. He really didn't want to hurt Sarge who was obviously not in his right mind but no one could get away with punching him in the mouth and not walk away with a few bruises too. Sam ducked low, avoiding yet another hit from Sarge and aimed an uppercut at his chin.

Sarge yelped at the impact and stumbled backwards clutching his mouth. Sam could see a few trickles of blood seeping from between his fingers. Sarge glowered at him, lowering his hands and shaking them off. He sent small drops of blood splattering across the floor. Sam stared wide-eyed at Sarge wiping his mouth off on his sleeve. The fresh blood seeped into bright red of the fabric, matching almost perfectly.

Sarge threw himself at Sam in a frenzy, his attacks more sloppy and more desperate. He was slipping and it gave Sam just enough to be able to pin him to the ground and give him one last hit for good measure. "Sarge!" He yelled. "What happened to you!" Sarge didn't answer. There was still blood in his mouth. Too much. He tried to speak but only wet hacking coughs escaped him.

Sam held Sarge to the floor until he had calmed down enough to not try and attack him every five seconds. Sarge's breathing was steadier and the flow of blood from his mouth had finally stopped. "Sam..." Sarge breathed. "What did I do?" he asked.

Sam's heart clenched at the way Sarge's voice sounded. It was pleading and pitiful and so unlike the boisterous and proud knight he was. "I don't know," Sam admitted. He carefully released Sarge's arms and let him sit up. Sarge eyed Sam with his re-split lip and his bruised legs and the small cut above his eyebrow.

"You got hurt," Sarge noted, reaching out to touch Sam's lip. He leaned back just so, just out of reach. Sarge got the message and pulled his arm back. "I apologize," he said, loud enough to be covering up something else and stood up. "I don't know what came over me. Please, forgive me for-" Sam stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. Sarge let out a hiss of pain.

"As much as I appreciate your apology, you also must apologize to Father. You nearly scared him to death. He's going to have a fit over this," Sam said. Sarge nodded shakily. "Of course. I'm sorry. Do you need help with-" he gestured to Sam as a whole. Sam finally let his hand off Sarge's shoulder and shook his head. "No. I'm perfectly fine. I can deal with it," he said, although Sarge didn't miss the venom in his voice.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," Sarge muttered. That was the very reason he was hired. To protect the prince. He had failed his single job. Sarge wasn't used to failing. He didn't do it often. Still, he needed to set things right. Maybe quit, leave the job to someone who would beat up Sam? Maybe find out what happened that made him go postal? Maybe... Maybe-

King Simmons burst through the library doors with King Grif and a hooded man in tow. His first reaction was to scream. He denied himself that first reaction and proceeded with dignity, his hands only slightly shaking. "Sam... Y-you should head straight over to the medic once you hear this," Simmons said. And with a brief glance over at Sarge, "You too."

Simmons cleared his throat. "I've noticed something about the clouds. The color. I know that color. King Leonard Church of Valhalla has magic that color. He can make exact copies of himself and he mentioned having a twin brother once. Grif met him a few times, says he's not the nicest person." Grif nodded in agreement, still eyeing Sam.

"Church's brother also has magic. It's extremely rare, but he does. And if those clouds are blue like Church's magic and it can't be him then logically this has to be the work of Epsilon Church," Simmons said. He couldn't help but add an ominous tone to his words.

Sam stepped forward. "So do you know what he's doing? Or how?" Sarge piped up. "And why I just attacked Sam?" He asked. "-sorry. I apologize. I deeply am sorry for harming Samuel," Sarge added with a hasty bow. Simmons shook his head. "No, I don't know what he's doing, but this man does," Simmons gestured to the hooded man," And we'll deal with this mess later," he said looking from Sam to Sarge disapprovingly.

The hooded man shrugged off his cloak and revealed his face. He wore a serene smile, had short brown hair and a feathery scar through his left eye. Sam gasped. It was the man with the falcon who used to sell crystals at the market! He couldn't help but crack his own smile when the man inclined his head to Sam.

"Hello. I'm York," nice to meet you all. It's an honor to meet the royal family, even if one of them is bloody and the other two are stressed beyond belief," York said in a sorry attempt to lighten the mood. He coughed once. "Anyway. I know Epsilon. I've been around nearly everywhere. He was never my favorite person and I dislike very few."

"He told me about his magic. He and I bonded over our mutual possession of it. He said he had the power to influence thoughts and memories. Said he was going to use it to stop war and crime." York stopped to scratch his cheek. "He didn't. I guess he went blind with power... He started rewriting the memories of anyone who witnessed him not at his best."

"He tried to stop couples from splitting up, made them forget all the bad experiences, stopped petty fights instantly. Then he flipped it around. He started fights, started wars even! The Timber War, you remember that?" York whirled around and pointed to Grif. "That was started because of Epsilon! And the Battle of Armonia too, and the Sidewinder Incident! He started them all! Just because he could. I guarantee he did-"

York stared at the wrecked library and the wrecked prince and his knight. "-whatever this is too. You said you've been feeling weird, right?" Sarge nodded. "That's him. The clouds. What did you say you did?" he asked. It felt a bit like an interrogation. "He attacked me. With the intent to kill," Sam said. Simmons and Grif both winced. "It must have been Epsilon," he added.

York sighed. "Yeah. That's him. You'd better track him down, do something about this. I'll help if I can. I know a guy- well, two guys who can and figure something out. The best thing you can now, though, is wear these." York pulled four small necklaces from his cloak and handed one to everyone. They were made of leather and small red crystals held on by string. "Wear these and they should keep Epsilon from messing with you," York said.

"Thanks," Grif said. After a silence," head down to the kitchen and have anything you want. A man like you must be hungry." York's face brightened. "Thank you so much, your Majesty!" he said, bowing deeply and exiting the room with a spring in his step. Grif watched him go with a content smile. The moment he was out of sight Grif rounded on Sarge.

"What the hell did you do?" he demanded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bet... Y'all thought this was going to be a regular old' fantasy AU. Mmhmmhmm, you were wrong! It's got fuckin' magic!
> 
> Next chapter is just the boys bonding over their injuries... And mooOooOre...
> 
> Don't forget to comment, let me know what you thought because I love hearing it! ❤❤❤


	11. Chapter Eight | The Lion is Envious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sarge has negative feelings. He hates it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some more Sarge POV in this chapter... And Dr. Grey because she is too lovely to leave out (oh, and Doc is there too).
> 
> _Italics are flashbacks..._

Dr. Emily Grey tapped her pencil lazily on the notebook she had open on her lap. She dragged her gaze over the two men standing in her doorway covered in blood and guilt.

"What did you do?" he asked in disbelief. Sam opened his mouth to answer but closed it again. "Did you get into a fistfight with a bear?" he asked. Sam shook his head. "He's not a bear," he said quietly. Sarge gave Sam a sidelong glance and shrugged.

"I got mind-controlled into attacking him," he said casually. Dr. Grey sighed heavily. "Alrighty then. Let me patch you two up," she said in a surprisingly cheerful voice. "I do hope neither of you broke each other's bones because that would be _quite_ the hassle. Both men seemed equally surprised that she didn't pry further.

Dr. Grey sat them both down on a hospital bed and checked nearly every inch of them for injuries. Both Sam's shins were heavily bruised and the cut on his lip and over his eyebrow would have to be stitched up. Dr. Grey said, with her usual hyper-interested voice that Sam narrowly avoided a few bruised ribs. It was a good thing Sarge hadn't aimed any higher.

Sarge didn't have it much better. He had a bruised collarbone and he sprained his wrist in addition to having bitten his tongue. Sam tensed up at that. He had wondered about that. Why there had been so much blood. Sarge seemed embarrassed, even ashamed when Dr. Grey announced it.

After the checkups, Dr. Grey left them alone to tell the Kings. The look in her eyes told Sam that she easily could've gotten someone else to do it. Sarge watched her go with a hesitant gaze and started messing with his wrist brace. Dr. Grey said it wasn't serious but he should avoid unnecessary strain. He didn't like it. It impaired his mobility. How was he supposed to do anything without the use of his dominant wrist?

Sarge caught Sam staring and stopped. Sam kept staring. "Are you okay?" he asked. Sarge almost shook his head, but caught himself and nodded resolutely. Sam didn't buy it. "Sorry you bit your tongue," he mumbled. "I didn't think it would bleed that much." Sarge grunted.

Sam sighed quietly and finally looked away. He brought a hand up to gingerly feel the cut on above his eyebrow. He hissed at the pain and withdrew his hand. Sarge glanced over at him. He was getting restless and he hated it. He wanted to escape to anywhere but where he was. He would even prefer to be back in the library being chewed out by the kings.

_"What the hell did you do?" Grif yelled. He stomped over to Sarge and used the few inches he had on him to look intimidating. Sarge blinked. "I- I was mind-controlled, your Majesty," he said. Everyone in the room noted how much his voice was shaking. Grif glowered at him. "I don't care. If you step out of line again I will execute you myself," he said._

_Simmons ran up to them both and pulled on Grif's arm. "I'll take care of this," he mumbled. Grif sighed and stepped back, allowing Simmons to stand in front of Sarge and smile down at him. He was much more menacing when he was so much taller. "Sarge," Simmons began. "Yes, your Majesty?"_

_"Do not touch him," Simmons said with terrifyingly perfect enunciation. "Until we get to the bottom of this Epsilon business, you do not lay a finger on him," Simmons leaned down and lowered his voice, "understand?" Sarge swallowed thickly. His mouth still tasted like blood. "Yes. I understand, your Majesty."_

_Simmons smiled at him. It was soft and genuine. "Take him to the medic, then. Wouldn't want those wounds to get infected. That would be dreadful," Simmons waffled on, trying to distract from the fact that Sarge wasn't moving. "Go on," Simmons urged them both. Sarge left the room a few paces ahead of Sam and kept his gaze straight ahead._

"Do not touch him." Sarge was certain that no one else had heard that. He hoped no one else had heard that. He looked over at Sam, seated mere inches away from him with his hands clasped in his lap. "I really am sorry," Sam said. His voice was just above a whisper and Sarge almost doubted that he had actually heard it.

"I know what it's like to be on the receiving end of my dads' wrath. They can both be scary sometimes, but they never stay mad for long. They don't hate you, they're just scared for me. And I'm fine," Sam said. Sarge exhaled slowly. The kings didn't hate him. Good. ~~"But do _you_ hate me?"~~ "I'm glad. I'm glad they're only being cautious and I'm glad you're not hurt but-" Sam raised an eyebrow. "But?" he prompted.

Sarge hesitated. "But I hate that I hurt you." He turned to fully face Sam. His eyes slowly took in every inch of his face as he opened his mouth and formed his words. "It's the last thing I want to do because I know you've been hurt so much and-" Sam didn't mean to tune out the rest of Sarge's words. He just ended up making eye contact and suddenly he was lost in the twin oceans of ice that were Sarge's eyes.

"Your eyes are so beautiful."

Sarge stared. He stared as Sam brought up both his hands and _almost_ grabbed Sarge's hands. "I have never seen eyes so blue in my life," he whispered. Sarge felt his breath hitch and he instinctively leaned back. Was Epsilon targeting Sam now? No, his voice sounded too confident to be controlled.

"Sam," Sarge warned. "What's happening?" Sam retracted his hands and sat back awkwardly. "I- I've almost died so many times I'd rather just get that out. You should know," he said. Sarge frowned. He had beautiful eyes? Him? _Sarge?_  "No one has ever told me that," Sarge admitted before he knew what he was doing.

"You're the first." Sam looked almost surprised. He looked away from Sarge for a second. Towards the door, at the wall, at the floor, back to Sarge. "That's a pity. 'One with eyes such as yours could craft the stars,'" he said. "Who said that?" Sarge asked, recognizing it as a quote.

Sam went silent. He bit his lip nervously. "Dad said that... To Father. On their wedding day." Sarge's mouth formed a perfect 'o'. He scrambled for something to say. "Romantic," was all he came up with. Sam flinched. "But I didn't mean it that way, of course," Sam said quickly. Sarge nodded.

Of course...

"You're my knight, it's not-" Sam stopped. His eyes flicked over to Sarge for an instant, something big hidden behind the walls of gray. Sarge wanted nothing more than to tear them down and find out what it was.

Dr. Grey came through the doorway waving her notebook and calling out in a sing-song voice "Good news, they won't fire you, Sarge!" unnecessarily. Sam gave her a look that said 'you are a savior,' and immediately clapped Sarge on the back to try and dispel any straggling tension. "Well, that's good to hear. Wouldn't want to lose you. I think you've proven that you're quite good in combat," he joked.

Sarge offered him a stiff nod and tried to squirm away from Sam's hand. Simmons hadn't elaborated, he didn't know if _Sam_ was allowed to touch him. Better safe than sorry. He'd rather keep his head, even at the cost of losing what precious little human contact he got.

Dr. Grey tittered away about keeping their wounds clean and getting plenty of rest while she went about tidying up the infirmary. Sarge tuned her out after a few minutes. He had heard it all before. A little while later Dr. Grey's nurse Doc came in looking worried.

"Um. Dr. Grey?" he asked timidly. She looked up from her notebook at him expectantly. "Have you seen Donut? He's went into town and now I can't find him. He should have been back by now," Doc said, wringing his hands anxiously. Dr. Grey furrowed her brow. "No, I don't believe I've seen him. We'll all keep an eye out," she assured him, gesturing to Sam and Sarge who were both gearing up to leave.

"You said he went into town?" Sam asked. "Where did he say he was going?" Doc shrugged. "He said something about errands for Lopez. Bread, I think?" Sarge heard Sam draw a sharp breath beside him.  Sam gave Doc a sharp nod as he led Sarge quickly to the door. "We'll make sure he's alright," he said.

Sarge came to a dead halt in the hall and looked expectantly at him. "Donut went into town for bread. Terrance makes bread. Donut likes to talk... And flirt shamelessly. I guarantee you they're talking and have been for hours." Sarge shook himself free from Sam's grasp. "So we just go down there and get Donut?" he asked. Sam shrugged. "We could. We could also stay out of view of the windows and not risk another mid-control instance," he said.

Sarge nodded slowly. "I like the second option better," he admitted. Sam looked back towards the closed door of the infirmary. "The thing is, Doc gets anxious around strangers. He has- he can sometimes get out of control. It would be better for us to go," Sam said.

Sarge sensed something in the atmosphere had shifted and decided he should try his hand at lightening the mood. "You just want to see Terrance again, don't you?" Sarge teased. He nearly went for a playful jab of the elbow but stopped himself short. _"Do not touch him."_ Sam huffed quietly. "No I don't," he said, even as a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Sarge fell silent. Sam had such a terrible poker face, he could always tell when he was lying. And Sam _definitely_ wanted to see Terrance. Sam started to walk down the hall towards the laundry room where he had left his boots and Sarge his armor. Sarge trailed behind him staring at the floor. His chest felt constricted, and not just because he had plenty of bruises.

He replayed Sam's words in his head. The hesitation, the smile. He was lying and it made Sarge irrationally upset. Childhood friends were important. He knew very well how nice it was to reconnect with them after so many years. So... Why in the world was he so ticked off? Why did it make his heartbeat sound like a flood in his ears?

Sam sported a faint smile during the whole walk to town. Sarge was relieved to see there were no more of Epsilon's blue clouds in the sky. That would have made everything all the more complicated. And Sarge didn't need more complications. He was irritated and annoyed and confused as it was.

And the feeling in his chest wasn't going away.

Sam pushed open the door to Terrance's bakery, Sarge close at his heels. Terrance was standing behind the counter with his back turned kneading a small bit of dough and Donut was perched on the counter next to him chattering away. Sam gestured grandly to the two of them and looked at Sarge. "See? I told you they'd be here," he said triumphantly.

Sarge nodded curtly and stood by the door. "Then let's get him and go," he muttered. Sam waved him off. "It's fine, I'm going to talk to Terrance," he said as he walked up to the counter with a noticeable spring in his step. Sarge silently glowered as Terrance's face lit up at the sound of Sam's voice.

"I didn't expect to see you so soon!" Terrance said. "I thought it'd be at least a week," he added with a smirk. Sam chuckled. He had a nice laugh, Sarge observed. So many different variants, all distinctly him. Sam drummed his fingers on the counter. "So, Donut," he said, turning his attention to the man sitting on the counter. "This is where you've been." Donut shrugged.

"What can I say? I got sidetracked. Terrance and I were bonding over facial scars," he said. Terrance smiled at him, bringing is hand up to wipe a bit of stray flour off Donut's cheek. The gesture was so blatantly intimate that Sam backed away slowly. Neither of the other two noticed him leave. He made his way back to the door and gestured outside. "Let's leave them be," he said hastily.

Outside, a very confused Sarge crossed his arms and sent an equally deadly and inquisitive stare at Sam. "What are we doing?" he demanded. Sam shrugged. "I'd rather leave now than witness my childhood friend and my tailor making out. It would be awkward, don't you think?" Sam asked rhetorically. Sarge glanced through the window into the bakery. A moment later he jerked his head back.

"Yeah, let's leave," he muttered, starting down the road again. He almost grabbed Sam's arm to pull him along but- _"Do not touch him,"_ he didn't. He let his arm fall limply to his side and watched Sam walk ahead of him, his strides making it easy for Sarge to get left behind.

"You'll tell Doc that Donut's okay, right?" Sarge asked Sam. He had to walk quickly to keep up. "Of course. Doc worries so easily, it'll make him so stressed out not to know," Sam said. "He might put a chair-shaped hole in another window," he added with a smirk. Sarge doubted that it was a joke. They walked for a while in silence, the crunching of small rocks under their boots the only sound save for the birds in the nearby forest.

"You aren't upset that you didn't get to talk more with Terrance?" Sarge inquired. He immediately regretted saying it. Sam's face fell slightly. "No," Sam said. He went quiet again, so long that Sarge didn't think he'd say anything else. Then, "I'll have plenty of chances to talk with him," he said, the assurance in his voice paper-thin. "It's not the end of the world."

Sarge nodded, even though Sam's face was turned away and he thought back to the constricting feeling in his chest. It was gone now. It has faded quickly once he had seen through the window. Terrance's hands covered in flour and pale, white, dusty marks all over Donut's face and legs. Sarge had known what it was then. Jealousy. Or, Envy. One of the two, he was sure.

Years ago he'd sat with Florida bandaging up his wounds and splinting his fractured ankle. They had talked about feelings. Something Sarge only did rarely. Somehow, the topic had shifted to the definition of words and unsurprisingly, Florida carried with him a small pocket dictionary and flipped through the thin pages reading out interesting words.

_Florida cleared his throat. He slowly eased his ruined leg onto Sarge's lap and let him meticulously clean the wound. "Here we go. I love this one. 'Jealous: Noun. 'Hostile towards a rival or one believed to enjoy advantage.'" Sarge glanced up from his work. "I thought that was envy," he said. Florida shook his head. "No no, Envy," he flipped through his dictionary, "Is this. Envy: Noun. 'A feeling of unhappiness over another's good fortune together with a desire to have the same good fortune.'" He closed the book with a satisfactory snap._

Sarge hummed to himself. Envy it was. Envy at the close relationship that Sam seemed to have with Terrance after only a few hours. Guilty relief when he realized that they weren't nearly that close. Guilty relief. Sarge frowned to himself. He shouldn't feel relieved. He shouldn't have to feel guilty for feeling relived.

He shouldn't have been envious in the first place. He shouldn't have been envious of Terrance and it was stupid. He was being stupid. Sarge kicked at a rock on the ground. It bounced down the trail a few yards ahead of them. Sam started, like he was lost in thought himself and looked over at Sarge. Sarge kicked the rock again. It went six feet. He walked faster and geared up to kick it once more.

To be fair, Sam wasn't paying attention to where he was going. He was watching the rock that Sarge kept kicking. He definitely didn't notice the root protruding out of the ground. It wasn't his fault he tripped. But he did, and Sam saw the ground rush towards him. Simmons was going to die of stress if he kept getting hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I stared at the word 'jealous' for so long it doesn't even look like a word anymore.
> 
> And thus concludes my scheduled updates. I am so sorry for leaving you on a cliffhanger. Check back in about... Three, four weeks give or take? I'll have some more then.
> 
> Love y'all, don't forget to leave a comment! ❤❤❤


	12. Chapter Nine | The Lion Dances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam decieds to teach Sarge something new. Sarge starts to realize something new as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three to four weeks, haha try five fuCIKNG MONTHS
> 
> Fuck you, me.

Sarge moved before he even had time to fully process everything. He just saw Sam falling quickly and acted. Wrapping both arms tightly around Sam’s waist, he pulled him back upright, careful to keep them both steady. Sam held his hands out in front of him like he could fall again at any moment. Sarge's chest was pressed flush against Sam’s back and he could feel his heartbeat.

Sarge let go of Sam suddenly, muttering something that Sam couldn't hear and busied himself making sure his wrist brace was still secure. sam caught himself staring at Sarge’s uncharacteristic concerned frown. He watched the small red crystal dangling from Sarge's necklace. Sam felt for his own necklace and saw that he was wearing his too. He hadn't even remembered even putting it on. He had simply been holding it until- until the infirmary. Sam shook his head fondly. Dr. Grey sure was skilled. Sarge glanced over at Sam and beckoned him along as he started back towards the palace as if nothing had happened.

Sam caught up to Sarge without any effort. They walked for a few minutes without any words between them. Then, “thank you.” Sam kept his eyes straight ahead. “I should really try harder to stay out of trouble but,” he tucked his hair over one shoulder. “Thank you anyway.” Sarge waved his hand dismissively. “Nonsense,” he said. “I'm always here. It's my job to keep you safe. I should have been doing that,” he added meaningfully. Sarge didn’t think he'd ever fully forgive himself for attacking Sam. Even if it was under the influence of magic.

They made it back to the palace without any further complications. Sam muttered something about going to take a nap and Sarge nodded quickly to him. He figured he’d find something to do. Maybe take a nap of his own. Sarge watched Sam climb the stairs until he was out of sight and he finally decided to move after the bruise on his collarbone made sure he knew it was still there.

* * *

 

Sam collapsed onto his bed without even changing. He kicked off his boots and swung his legs onto the mattress, rolling over a few times to wrap himself securely in his blanket. He was pretty sure he could sleep for a day and a half straight. Except as soon as he closed his eyes all he could see was Sarge with a misty look in his eyes and his teeth bared in a snarl. Sarge with his sword drawn, ready to flay him like a salmon. Sam opened his eyes and stared blankly at the wall.

Great. Now he had that to plague his dreams. As if he needed any other trauma on top of everything Felix had done. Sam pushed the blankets off his chest and sat up. He rubbed his eyes slowly. He was so tired. So tired, but he wouldn't be able to sleep for weeks. Sam wished he could forget about it. Forgive Sarge, maybe. Have it never happen. But it did happen and as far as he knew, time travel didn't exist. He couldn't simply slip back a few hours and stop it.

Sam decided it would be better to do something else for the time being. Sleeping could wait until the nighttime. By then, he’d be able to sleep. In theory. Sam got out of bed, his movements slow. He pulled his boots on again and walked to the door.

Honestly, it took him by complete surprise when he swung open the door and found Sarge standing outside with his hand raised, ready to knock. Sam startled back a few steps. He cleared his throat once. Neither of them moved. Sam, usually the more eloquent, was at a loss. “Uh, Sarge,” he said lamely. Wow. Great start, Sam, he scolded himself. “I thought you were- I mean, I didn't expect you to be here,” Sam said. Sarge rocked back on his heels.

“Well, I admit I was going to find something to do but- I made sure to tell Doc that Donut is okay- I decided my time is better spent with you.” Sarge paused. “That is to say, I'm your knight. And I don't know much about you, if I'm being honest.” Sam drew a long breath. He stared at the far wall over Sarge’s head. “I guess neither of us know much,” he said quietly. Sam stepped back from the door and beckoned Sarge in. “Come in,” he mumbled.

Sarge waited quietly while Sam pulled his bedcovers up and tucked them loosely. “I couldn't sleep,” he admitted quietly and sat down at the foot of his bed. Sarge made his way over and sat down next to him. He was sure to leave an acceptable two feet between them. Sam didn't say anything more about his insomnia. “What do you want to know about me?” he asked instead. Sarge thought for a moment. “Nothing in particular. Tell me anything about yourself.”

Sam moved his leg closer to Sarge's. “I'm not very good with people,” he started. Sarge snorted. “I know, hard to believe,” Sam said sarcastically. “But I'm intimidating. I'm tall, scarred, I've been told I scowl an awful lot. Not to mention I can speak a language nearly everyone else can't understand. No wonder everyone loses their nerve around me.” Sam leaned back on his arms. “Except you, it seems,” he said. Sarge crossed his arms. “I'm used to intimidation. Being in the royal army for ten years desensitizes you to that sort of thing.” Sam nodded. “ I guess. But I wouldn't know. Your turn,” he added.

Sarge considered for a moment. “I don't know how to dance.” Sam looked surprised. “Really? Not at all? Not even a simple box-step?” Sarge raised an eyebrow. “A what now?” Sam let his head hang. “I can't believe this. What were you going to do if I had asked you to dance at the masquerade ball?” Sam wondered. Sarge smiled. “Simple. I would have politely declined,” he said. Sam chuckled. “A valid tactic,” he muttered.

“Would you, by any chance, be willing to learn how?” Sam asked, pushing himself to his feet. Sarge blanked. “I-” he stared. Sam was standing before him with his hand outstretched, the other behind his back. His posture was straight, his feet solidly together. He had taken his hair out of the ponytail and let it hang freely over his shoulders. The forest green tunic he wore brought out the cold gray of his eyes. He looked, if Sarge was being honest, like a work of art. Even with his lip in stitches.

His hand twitched. He wanted to reach out, to take Sam's hand and learn how to dance. But Simmons’ words held him in an iron grip. “Do not touch him.” He hated it with a passion. But how could he defy a king? Again? He wasn't simply going to ignore that moment earlier when he had saved Sam from falling. He was so warm, Sarge would have liked to keep holding him. That had been a severe lapse in judgment from him. Sarge sat frozen to the spot while Sam's eyebrows began a slow descent down his forehead and came to rest at concern. “Sarge?” he asked. “Are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost,” he tried to joke.

Sarge kept his hands firmly in his lap. “Sam. I- I have to tell you,” he glanced around the room, pointedly not looking at Sam. “King Simmons told me not to touch you,” he admitted. The look he got was a mixture of confusion and sympathy. “He said that?” Sam said, humor lacing his voice. Sarge frowned. “Yes,” he answered flatly. Sam leaned down to get on eye-level with Sarge. He made a show of looking around his room. “Simmons isn't here, is he?” he asked rhetorically.

Sarge gave Sam a defiant look. “I can't defy a direct order, your highness,” he said. Sam looked hurt at the formal title. He stood back up straight and took a few idle steps around the room. “Maybe you should focus less on following orders and more on keeping me safe.” Even he winced at that. It came out sounding more venomous than he wanted. They both knew what he was talking about, though. Gods, Sam wanted so badly to forget it. “You touched me earlier,” he pointed out, deflecting the topic back to it's point. “When you saved me.” Yes he had. It was an almost tender embrace and Sam wished it had lasted longer. Maybe forever. Sarge probably gave great hugs.

“Didn't you already disobey king Simmons then?” Sam asked. Sarge slumped forward and rested his arms on his knees. “I'm sorry,” he tried. “You know, Sarge. I’ve grown to enjoy your company. Even though you brutally attacked me today, that doesn't change,” Sam said, ignoring Sarge's apology. “I like you, Sarge, and I get to decide who can touch me. Not my father.” Sam held out his hand and tried again. “All I want to do is dance right now.”

Sarge almost missed Sam’s next words he was so in shock. Sam liked him? Was he reading into things too much and seeing something that wasn't there? Was that a love confession? Did he want it to be? Yes. No. He didn't know. He- he wanted to know, of course. Could he just ask? ‘Hey Sam, did you mean that platonically?’

“- have this, please?” Sarge blinked. Oops, he hadn't been listening. He was so caught up in his own thoughts. Important thoughts. “Uh, I'm sorry, what?” he asked sheepishly. Sam’s eyebrow quirked up. “I said, may I have this dance?” he asked. A work of art. Sarge gingerly put his hand on Sam's and he took it, pulling Sarge to his feet with effortless skill.

Sam cracked a smile. “Shall we?” he said. “I'll lead.” Sarge nodded numbly. He didn't know what Sam was talking about, just that his hand was on Sarge's waist and it was there to stay. Sam held Sarge's right hand in the air, careful of his wrist brace. He guided Sarge's left to his shoulder and he held on like his life depended on it. “Sarge,” Sam mumbled, leaning his face down within inches of Sarge's own. “You don't have to hold on so tightly,” he said. Sarge looked away and freed Sam's shoulder.

“Now, just count with me,” Sam continued. He swayed from side to side. “One, two, three, one, two, three,” Sam counted, keeping his movements in time with the rhythm. Sarge counted in his head and followed Sam. He got a slight smile from that. “Good. At least you can keep a tempo,” he said off-handedly. “This is a waltz,” he went on. “One of my favorites, actually. It does like this.” Sam cleared his throat and started to hum a tune. It didn't sound anything like what Sarge thought a full orchestra would, but it was nice anyway. Sam had a good voice.

Sam kept humming. He looked down at Sarge's feet, firmly planted to the ground and awkwardly trailed off. “Now we can start dancing. Just take a step to your right, with both feet, yes. Keep the tempo in your head, one, two, three, one, two, three.” Sarge did as Sam said and he caught on to the idea quickly. One step to the right, feet together, one step back, feet together, to the left, together, forward, together, it was easy. And he only stepped on Sam's feet twice. And then once on purpose, just because he felt like it. They both laughed at that. Sam pretended that Sarge had broken his toes and he collapsed to the ground, clutching his foot.

“Sam, stop it!” Sarge shouted. “No! I can't feel my toes! You'll have to carry me back into bed,” he lamented, cracking a sly smile. “I'm not carrying you, Sam,” Sarge said. Sam squeezed his eyes shut. “I guess I'll just die on the floor here, then,” he whispered. “If only I could perish in the comfort of my bed. But my knight can't help me. I'm doomed.” Sarge leveled him with a thoroughly unimpressed stare. “Doomed, you say? Your knight can't help, you say?” Sarge crouched down and patted Sam on the shoulder.

“Let's see about that,” he said. To be fair, Sarge couldn't resist a challenge. He slid his arms underneath Sam’s legs and back, hoisting him into his arms princess style. Sam choked down a yelp as Sarge held him as if he weighed nothing. It didn't help that Sam could feel his arm muscles flexing against his back. “I'm impressed,” he mumbled. Sarge smirked. “You should be, I'm practically buckling under your immense weight, your highness,” he said. Sam's eyebrows shot up. “Did you just- immense weight? What does that mean? Are you making fun of me?” he asked. Sarge shook his head quickly. “No no, you're perfectly muscled-” A pause while Sarge mentally cursed his lack of filter, “I mean you're not- you know what, here's your bed, please die in peace and forget I said anything, why don't you.” Sam started laughing as Sarge dropped him upon his bed and fell upon it with a sigh.

“I'm glad you think I'm muscular, Sarge. I worked hard for this,” he said through a smile, gesturing to himself. Sarge covered his face with his hand. “Actually, how about I die?” he mumbled. Sam stopped smiling. “Not if I can help it,” he muttered. Sarge's head snapped up and he made eye contact with Sam. “What?” Sam stared back at Sarge with an unwavering gaze. “I'm not going to let you die. You're trying to protect me, why can't I do the same?” he asked. Sarge shifted on the bed, turing fully to face Sam. “And why do you want to protect me?” he wondered aloud. Sam went quiet. He sat up straighter and scooted closer to Sarge.

“Because I care about you,” he said. After a frigid silence he tacked on “or maybe something along those lines.” Sarge laughed bitterly. “That means a lot, Sam. Thank you.” Sam smiled at Sarge, creeping his hands closer to him. “Of course. It's true,” he said. Sarge glanced down at Sam's hands and he froze. “What else is true?” he asked. Sam didn't slow his hands as they came to rest on top of Sarge's. “You're a quick learner and I think with a few more lessons dancing could easily become second nature to you,” he said casually, trying to hide a smile. Sarge huffed a breath. “Not what I meant,” he mumbled. “Thank you. I might just take you up on that.” Sam blanked.

“Take me up on what?” he asked. Sarge turned his hands over so he was holding Sam’s. “I thought that was a thinly veiled offer to keep teaching me how to dance, your highness,” Sarge said. Sam squeezed Sarge's hands briefly. “Don't call me that,” he whispered. “I'm not your highness. I'm your-” he bit his lip to stop himself. _Friend? Charge? Forced acquaintance?_ What was Sam? What was he to Sarge? Was it bad that he hoped it was something more than ‘friend’?

“Friend is the word you're looking for,” Sarge finished for him. Sam looked up and seeing a hard-to-read expression on Sarge's face and tried to dampen it with a smile. “I guess,” he said. “Unless there's a more accurate word to describe what I am to you?” he asked with a small wink. Sarge snorted. “A pain in my ass,” he said, sounding dead serious. Sam faked offense. He leaned forward. “I told you I'd stay out of trouble, Sarge,” he said. Sarge stared at him for a second.

He cleared his throat loudly. “Well try harder, because you're an inch from my face and your hand is on my bruised collarbone.” Sam leaned away faster than he'd ever moved before. He held his hands up in surrender and backed away until his back hit the headboard. Sarge's face fell imperceptibly and he crossed his arms. “I never said you had to do anything about it,” he said. A look suddenly passed across Sam's face, hard to read but Sarge guessed it might be discomfort. “But you can blame it on the clouds if you want,” he said. Sam frowned. “The necklaces prevent us from-” “Blame it on the clouds, Sam,” Sarge cut in. He stood up from the bed and smoothed out his tunic.

“That's enough dancing for me.” Sarge silently walked to Sam's door and left without another word. Sam let him go. Sarge kicked the wall on his way to his room. He hated how much it pissed him off that Sam had backed away like he had been burned. Was he really that unappealing? Did Sam…

Did Sam not like him?

It pissed him off even more that the thought of that scared him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Illustrations may be added later, I just couldn't stand not having updated in five months
> 
> oof
> 
> Don't forget to leave kudos and comments, they make me so incredibly happy and inspire me to write more! ❤❤❤


	13. Chapter Ten | The Wolf and his Phoenix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is invited to spend the day with King Leonard, a good friend of his fathers. The carriage ride to the castle on the border is long and there is plenty of time for discussion.
> 
> Too bad neither of them know _how_ to discuss.

Sarge had been staring up at the ceiling of his room for a very long time. Long enough that he noticed obvious changes outside his window, the most prominent being the sun blinding him through the sheer curtains drawn closed over them. He huffed a breath and brought himself to a slumped sitting position. Ever since he had practically fled Sam's room the evening before it was impossible for him to get a wink of sleep.

His thoughts were plagued with worries. What if he had irreparably damaged their friendship? What if Sam started treating him differently? What if, what if, what if. Sarge had to tell himself over and over that thinking about every possible outcome would distract him so much that he wouldn't notice the actual outcome. A knock on his door alerted him to the fact that he still had to face the day. Pulling on a tunic and a proper pair of pants, he approached his door and turned the knob slowly. It was a good thing he had trained himself to be able to mask his disappointment because he honestly never thought he would be so utterly underwhelmed at seeing King Grif on the other side of his doorway but there he was.

Nearly every part of him wanted it to be Sam and the other part was starting to slowly realize why.

Lucky for him, Grif spared him a drawn out speech. “King Leonard wants to meet Sam at the border castle this afternoon and by extension that means you,” he said, fiddling with a stray lock of hair poking out from underneath his crown. Sarge furrowed his brow. “What's the border castle?” he wondered. Grif stared at a cobblestone in the wall. “Leonard used to rule with his queen, who everyone knew as Tex. But she's gone now and he does fine on his own with a tiny populous and his knight to keep him company.” Grif tucked his hair behind his ear. “The border castle is where he used to live with her. It's been in different states of disrepair since then. Sometimes he'll visit if he's feeling nostalgic but he's rarely ever invited anyone else.”

Sarge watched Grif walk away. Somehow, consider yourself lucky wormed its way into his mind and stayed put as he put on his armor and secured his shortsword. Before he left, he took the small dagger he kept under his pillow and tucked it in his boot just like he did every single day. Sarge supposed he should have been more surprised to see Sam waiting at the bottom of the stairs for him but maybe Sam just hadn't gotten any sleep either. Had the same things kept him up at night? Did he spend hours regretting what he said? What he did? Sarge stopped in front of Sam and did his best to hide the sudden smile that threatened to show when Sam looked up at him. It was odd. No one else had ever made Sarge want to smile so much. 

Simply looking at him made the whole world seem better. Sarge wondered if this was a new development or if he just hadn't cared enough to notice it before. Sam stood up, gods he was so tall, and put a hand on Sarge's shoulder. “Are you ready to go? It's about an hour's ride to the border on the fastest carriage,” he said. Sarge nodded numbly and suddenly he was taken back to the evening before and Sam's hand was warm, his fingers splayed out across Sarge's collarbone and sending small shivers of pain up his neck but he didn't want to do anything about it because Sam's nose was practically touching his own and Sarge never wanted to look away from him, his eyes so entrancing, framed by thick, dark eyelashes-

Sam was calling for him. Sarge shook himself out of his reverie and turned to follow Sam down the corridors, ignoring the heat in his cheeks and hoping Sam didn't notice. They were making their way towards the stables, tucked behind the west side of the castle. It was the closest to the massive canyons walls and the red and orange striated clay nearly filled Sarge's vision as he stepped out into the pale morning light. The sun hadn't crested the cliffs yet as Sam led him to a compact building which succeeded in being simultaneously a carriage house and horse stables while still retaining a certain charm.

It was all impressive, to an extent, but the carriage itself blew the house out of the metaphorical water. It was big enough to seat at least six people, designed to be pulled by four magnificent white horses and painted like a sunset. Sarge was floored by the amount of thought that must have gone into it. Not only was it essentially both the kings’ signature colors blending together but it was symbolic of Blood Gulch itself, known for its sunsets and the way the glorious light seemed to set the canyon cliffs ablaze. The carriage was sleek and lacked all the frivolous gilding on the exterior he had seen on most others.

The inside, that was another matter. The seats were upholstered silk, a deep wine color with delicate gold thread trimming the edges that made Sarge not want to sit down for fear of ruining it. He didn't set foot in the carriage, not yet. He stood holding the door, because that was something a completely professional knight with no buried feelings would do, with an expectant expression while Sam simply stared him down, fingers tucked around the crimson sash he wore. Sarge could have cut the tension in the air with his shortsword. Sam tilted his head ever so slightly and oh no, a strand of Sam’s hair fell in front of his eyes and got caught on his long eyelashes. Sarge hesitated for a moment before taking one step forward and brushing the hair back behind his ear before he had time to second-guess himself.

Sam raised his eyebrows in a silent question. Sarge pointedly didn't look at him. The open door to the carriage was much more interesting at the moment. The only reason he had done that was because sitting there and staring at Sam's soft, silky dark like chocolate hair was going to kill him and the mortifying second that his fingers brushed against Sam's cheekbone as he fixed his hair almost, but not quite, did. In the grand scheme of things, it was the lesser of two evils, so to speak. “Are you going to get in?” Sarge asked. He heard Sam let out a breathy laugh and climb into the carriage. He had to nearly double over to avoid hitting his forehead and Sarge got an amazing view of how snugly his pants fit tight in all the right places, good god Sarge, you're out of your mind. Sarge shook his head to clear it of any unwarranted and decidedly unprofessional thoughts and followed. He had a millisecond to decide whether or not to sit across from Sam but his legs took him to the other bench anyway. He was doomed to stare at Sam's pretty face for a full hour. Not a bad way to go, Sarge thought.

Sam stared somewhere to the left of Sarge’s head for a few minutes after they started on their journey. Eye contact wasn't an advisable course of action considering Sam was probably still blushing. He might do something rash. That's how he always got, blinded my emotions. He would do the stupidest things and have no explanation for them. Sam couldn't risk doing something worse than invading Sarge's personal space like he had the night before. Something like- like grabbing both his arms and pulling him into an incredibly awkward hug and mumbling over and over that he doesn't blame Sarge for almost killing him that one time and he's never going to stop saying it. It's something that's been on his mind ever since and Sam still wasn't convinced that Sarge forgave himself.

Sam's hands twitched at his sides. He really needed to do something other than sit in whatever weird, charged silence was between them. Sam huffed a breath of frustration and tugged at the ribbon that tied his hair in a loose ponytail. He threaded his fingers through his hair and smoothed it over one shoulder. As he was gathering it up to braid, he caught Sarge's gaze, trained on Sam's hair like a hawk. He slowed his movements and wondered absently what about his hair made Sarge look at him like that. His, if anything, was worth looking at. A rich, golden color, soft waves swept up in delicate peaks and sometimes the lighting was just right and he would seem to be wearing a golden crown he would make a wonderful King-

That's not- that's not what I meant, Sam told himself and it sounded oh so convincing. He flicked his eyes out the window and across the seat and then back to his hands, fingers curled around locks of hair. Would Sarge make a good king, though? He had strong convictions, a stubborn attitude and he said himself he preferred to lead rather than be led, but he did just fine with the latter, regardless. Sam supposed he had the potential to be a fine king if he wanted to be.

Sam watched Sarge's fingers loosen the leather straps that held his armor in place, pause, and tighten them again. He did this over and over, something of a nervous habit. “Have you ever done up your hair in something other than a braid or a tail?” Sarge asked once he got tired of the leather. Sam’s fingers paused in his hair, halfway through the braid. He thought for a moment, trying to rack his brain. He had to have, right? But all he could remember were the countless braids and ponytails every single day.

Sam threaded his fingers through the braid and loosened his hair back to freedom. “No, I can't recall that I ever have” he admitted sheepishly. Sarge smiled. “I can help you with that,” he offered. There was something in his gaze that made Sam want to say yes. He hesitated too long, though, and Sarge huffed impatiently before taking Sam’s arm and pulling him across the carriage. The bench was so shallow that Sam had to practically sit in Sarge’s lap to fit. He was turned away, allowing Sarge to pull his own fingers through his hair, quite effortlessly too, his movements were fluid and practiced and Sam leaned his head back closed his eyes, content and trusting.

Sarge sat forward then, his chest nearly flush with Sam’s back and he would be forever grateful that Sarge had taken off his chestplate. Sam could feel the heat on his back, Sarge’s breath across his neck and his hands in his hair all amplified and heavy, blurring his thoughts until all he could do was just feel. Sarge must have only been working for a minute, but to Sam it felt like a blissful eternity. And then the hands were gone and the warmth diminished and Sam had half a mind to lean back and feel it again but Sarge grabbed his shoulders and gently turned him around, gaze searching and appraising and Sam wanted to step back and take in every inch of Sarge's expression all at once.

He wanted to ask him if he knew what lay in the deep recesses of his mind because Sarge’s ice-blue stare seemed to pierce his very soul and awaken in him a Phoenix, one he thought long dead, that he hadn't known in such a long time. He began to call it Devotion, but this, whatever he was feeling for Sarge, wasn't quite that. Just as strong but in a different way, more like…

Budding Love. The embers of attraction about to burst into a flame again, nearly fit to set his heart ablaze.The fact that he would do so much for Sam, despite always being more fit to lead than follow, despite his apprehension in the face of anything remotely intimate, despite getting berated by both the kings, Sarge was ready to do nearly anything for him, even tie up his hair so he could look presentable.

Speaking of presentable, Sam lifted a hand gingerly to his head, feeling his hair done up in a loose bun. “How do I look?” Sam asked, suddenly so much more nervous about seeing King Leonard, about arriving with a knight whom he harbored brand new feelings for and being in the presence of the most perceptive people he knew. Sarge leveled him with a very hard to read gaze and in the soft light of the carriage he almost looked like he was blushing. “You look beautiful, Prince Samuel.” His words carried a kind of sincerity that made Sam’s heart skip a beat. Beautiful. It made him think, was that the kind of thing Sarge said all the time? Was- was it just for him? Did it mean something more?

Sarge sat fidgeting in his seat after that, lost in tumultuous thought. He refused to meet Sam’s eyes but always looked like he was about to say something. He stared out the window, his eyes darkening. His stomach had dropped and he could feel his heartbeat in his throat. An itch at the back of his neck, a shadow in the trees outside, everything was something. It felt almost like when Epsilon’s magic had taken him over but now he knew what it was, he was still in control and he was protected. His fingers wrapped around the crystal York had given him. It may as well be the only thing keeping him from doing something terrible. Again. Epsilon’s magic was here, it was close to them, close to King Leonard and Sarge couldn't stop the sinking feeling in his stomach from spreading. If Epsilon was reaching all the way to them a second time there must be something else in play. Sarge glanced back over at Sam and realized that he was sure of it. He was sure that he was prepared to lay down his life for the prince. If that's what it took, even if it meant he'd die with so many regrets.

Regrets.

All but one, he'd be willing to leave behind all but one. It took him a while to work up the courage but he finally faced Sam and looked him in the eyes. “I have a bad feeling about this,” he said. Sam furrowed his brow, not knowing where Sarge was going with this. “I know- I can feel that something is going to go wrong. And my first priority is your safety. If it comes down to it, I will die for you.” Sam straightened up, frowning even more. He leaned forward, his hands itching to move. “And if I die I will be dying without having done something important.” Sarge opened and closed his fists. “I might as well do it now,” he said quietly.

The carriage slowed to a stop then, and Sarge heard a commotion from outside. No time to strap his sword back onto his belt, he slipped his dagger out of his boot and put a finger to his lips, silencing Sam. Sarge opened the carriage door and stepped outside, leaving Sam inside wearing a concerned expression. He sat, tapping his fingers on his knees and trying to ignore the butterflies in his stomach. Did Sarge really think he was going to die? What on earth did he think was going to happen to constitute him… leaving?

Sam didn't want Sarge to leave him. He didn't- they hadn't spent enough time together, it wasn't right. Sam wouldn't let him die, not when he had just now realized that he was in love with his knight. Sam grabbed Sarge’s sword from the seat and kicked open the door, jumping out of the carriage with his arms raised defensively. He was met with King Leonard, head cocked to the side and wearing a teasing but inquisitive expression and his knight, Michael Caboose, who was currently squeezing the life out of Sarge in what he lightly called a hug. Sam let his shoulders relax and loosened his grip on Sarge’s sword. He opened his arms, inviting Caboose to hug him instead and spare Sarge’s life, which he seemed incredibly grateful for.

“What, no ‘Hello, Leonard, thanks for inviting me to your castle to catch up, I haven't seen you in ages?’” King Leonard teased, poking Sam in the arm. From Caboose's arms he rolled his eyes. “Funny,” Sam mumbled. He really hadn't seen them in ages, he nearly didn't recognize them at the masquerade. Sam was finally let down from Caboose's warm embrace and made proper introductions. “Leonard, this is my knight, Sarge. Sarge, King Leonard Church and his knight Michael Caboose.” Sarge bowed respectfully and slipped his dagger back into his boot as he did so. Sam handed Sarge his sword and sent him a meaningful look. Sarge, who was half-listening to what Leonard was saying, mouthed ‘later’ and followed Caboose down a stone path to the border castle.

Sam brought up the rear, anxious energy balled up inside him. How could Sarge leave him waiting like that? What regrets? ‘I might as well do it now.’ What did that mean?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's still writing this! Me!  
> Guess who's going to finish this before new years! Me!  
> Guess who's probably grossly overestimating their actual ability to write something with a strict deadline! Me.
> 
> -
> 
> Please don't forget to comment and leave kudos, you don't know how much that means to me! I absolutely love comments and really, they're what get me through some deep ruts. Thank you for reading! ❤❤❤


	14. Chapter Eleven | The Wolf Breaks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam's little world is changing quickly and there's something bigger at stake than himself.

King Leonard had a lot to say. It seemed there was just as much on his mind as there was on Sam’s. That made it hard to pay attention, however, getting stuck in his own head and his own problems. He really did want to listen to Leonard, truly. He was saying things about Epsilon, his twin brother, and recalling fond memories from when they were children. But then his shoulders got hunched and he turned his gaze to the ground, to the tiny sprouts of grass poking up between the cracked stone walkway that circled the small castle. Sarge and Caboose weren't too far away, just across the babbling brook that Sam stood by, separated by a neat line of trees. It was secluded enough for Leonard to feel like he was alone and the words spilled out like a waterfall.

“I loved him. He was my brother, we'd always been together. But something changed, I can't remember when it was. He started getting distant, he'd lock himself in the tower with nothing but a few books and not even a word too me. I'd see him for maybe a day or two every month back then. I missed him so much.” Leonard choked out those last words, a sob caught in his throat. He turned away and lowered himself onto a fallen log beside the brook. “And now to hear that years after he disappeared he's trying to brainwash my godson and his knight? What is going on inside his head?” Leonard fisted his hands in the fabric of his cloak and stood abruptly. “I need to-”

He took a few frazzled steps. “I need something to do, something to take my mind off all this.” Sam opened his mouth to speak but Leonard was already speed-walking back down the path to the castle. Sam nearly had to jog to keep up with him and he had the urge to strap him down to a chair when he tried to take a shortcut by jumping through an open window into the castle. After pulling Leonard down from the windowsill he carefully wrapped his arms around the king and just stood, slowly rubbing circles against his back. He could feel Leonard holding his breath, his arms stiff at his sides and his shoulders tense.

“I don't want to lose him but he's already gone.”

Sam hugged him tighter. “There's always someone we can't stand to lose, I know,” he mumbled. “And if there's anyone who can help him it's you.” Leonard snorted, a derisive sound and pushed himself away from Sam. “Now you're just patronizing me,” he spat. “I can't help him. He's too clever and too stubborn. He doesn't want help. He's already almost managed to kill you and I can't imagine he'd stop there. Hell, he's probably gonna go after your fathers next.”

There was a beat of silence before Sam went cold. He grabbed Leonard’s shoulders and breathed “He will.” Leonard quickly adopted Sam’s panicked look and started running. He needed to get to Blood Gulch and warn the Kings. Sam let Leonard go ahead and searched the grounds for Sarge and Caboose. He found them crouched around a tortoise and looking like they were enjoying themselves. Sam was disappointed that he had to ruin their fun. Sarge had the most attractive smile on his face.

“Sarge, I need you to go back to Blood Gulch,” Sam said without any preface. Sarge stood up and raised an eyebrow. “Epsilon is going to try and attack my fathers. Leonard is going warn them. I need you to go too.” Sarge lifted his chin defiantly. “Send Caboose. I'm staying here with you,” he argued. Sam spared a split second of deliberation before deciding he didn't have time to argue. “Fine, alright. Caboose, can you go with Leonard and make sure King Simmons and King Grif are safe?” he asked. Caboose tucked the tortoise under his arm, saluted to Sam and ran off towards the carriage.

Sam watched him go, the anxious knot in his stomach growing and absently fiddled with a stray lock of hair. Sarge’s face was set with worry too and they both stood in silence until Sarge grabbed Sam’s hand and walked him over to a wire table and a set of chairs. Sam sat down impatiently and bounced his leg up and down. He was this close to biting his nails, something he hadn't done since he was a child. Sarge reached across the small table and took Sam’s hands gently in his own. “Sam, it'll be alright. Stay calm.” Sam nodded and closed his eyes, focusing on the soft breeze and the warmth of Sarge's hands. Grif and Simmons would be fine. Caboose could keep them safe if he needed to. If he needed to… Sam hoped he wouldn't. He hoped Leonard could talk some sense into his brother or- or that he wouldn't attack at all.

Sam forced himself to stop frowning, his face was starting to hurt. He desperately needed something else to think about. Like how warm and comforting Sarge's hands were, their weight grounding him to the present. He looked up and saw Sarge staring behind him with a wary expression. He got up from the table and wrapped his hand loosely around his sword handle.

“Who goes there?” he shouted into the trees. Three men in cloaks emerged looking sheepish to varying degrees. Sam turned around in his chair and perked up. He recognized York and Terrence’s business partner, what was his name? Marron? Mason? The tall, blonde man standing between them, however, gave him pause. York waved brightly at Sam and jogged over to him in high spirits.

“I thought I might find you here! How's it going? Are the crystals keeping you out of trouble?” he asked, winking at Sam, although it was hard to tell when his injured eye was always squinted closed. Sam nodded numbly, even as Sarge glanced over at him with a nervous look. “Yes, the crystals are working. But York, we think Epsilon is in Blood Gulch already going after my fathers.” Sam got up from his chair, gripping the wire frame until his knuckles turned white. “I don't know what to do.”

Sarge felt like everything was moving underwater. Sam had just admitted to not knowing a solution. His voice didn't shake but there was such a weight behind his words that it made Sarge want to do everything in his power and make sure the made it out okay. Sarge supposed Sam was in no state to face off against Epsilon. He was frazzled enough as it was, but daring to stand toe-to-toe with the very reason his family was in danger, no. That would make it worse.

Sarge had to do it himself.

Yes, he had said he needed to stay with Sam but things were going to get worse still. He knew it. The only thing he could for Sam was keep his fathers safe. Even with Leonard and Caboose there it might not be enough. What would the kingdom be without its kings? There was nothing for it. Sarge looked over at Sam, bouncing ideas off the three men. There was something strange about them, the energy he felt when he was around King Grif or Leonard. He knew York was a magician, or at least, he assumed. Unless the crystals weren't his.

“York,” Sarge prompted. “Are you a magician?” Straight to the point. He couldn't afford to waste time. York pushed his cloak hood off his head and smiled at Sarge. “Indeed I am. But I'm guessing that's not really what you wanted to know. I'll be honest, the crystals aren't mine.” Sarge narrowed his eyes, about to ask how York could've known- “They're North’s,” York admitted, pointing to the tall, blonde man who was waving at them with a bandaged hand. Sarge didn't move, just stared at them both. So North must be a magician too. Sarge wondered if… Mason, the other baker he had seen at Terrence’s stand, was equally silent. Sarge locked eyes with him and Mason cocked his head to the side.

“York? Do you think-” he started, only to be cut off by York’s dismissing hand wave. “Yeah yeah, I'm working on it,” he said distractedly, squeezing his eyes shut for a second. The whole congregation was bathed in silence until York opened his eyes again and snapped his fingers. “Alright, I see it,” he said. “Sarge, go do your thing, it'll probably be fine. Sam?” York was abuzz with nervous energy, he couldn't seem to sit still. “Sam, it's going to be fine. Probably.” York paused. “Is a forty percent chance good?” he asked aloud. Mason huffed a loud breath. “No, York, anything below fifty is not good. Did you even learn basic math?” he said, exasperated. Sam's eyebrows had begun a slow descent down his forehead and had come to rest in a somehow panicked looking frown.

“Someone needs to explain everything right now or I am going to-” Sarge reached over and put a reassuring hand on Sam's shoulder. “Deep breaths, Sam,” he muttered. North stepped forward then, lifting his hands out from under his cloak. “We do owe you an explanation, my Prince. But it'll have to be quick. York says we don't have much time.” Sam's breathing got a hair more rapid.

“York has the power to see events yet to come,” North continued. “It's very powerful and easy to use incorrectly, to get consumed by.” York pushed past North and looked to Sam with an almost pleading gaze. “I tore my own eye out of my skull in an attempt to stop seeing the future,” he said. Sarge fought back a gasp. York just shrugged. “It just made my visions more vague.”

“I saw Epsilon's rise to villainy long before it came. And I saw something else.” York paused, searching Sarges face. “Someone is going spill blood in the throne room.”

Sam collapsed into his chair and Sarge turned his gaze away. “I suppose that's why I have to go,” he mumbled, hoping it was quiet enough. “Can any of you take me back to Blood Gulch faster than a steed?” he asked, his voice loud enough to be covering so many things. Mason lifted his hand in a feeble wave. “Hi,” he said. “I can get you there as soon as King Leonard arrives if we leave immediately.”

Sarge didn't give himself pause. “Alright, let's go,” he said, tightening his belt to secure his sword and making to walk towards Mason. Sam caught his hand as he was taking a step. “Sarge?” he said. “You said you would stay here with me.” Sarge took a shaky breath and turned around, still holding Sam's hand. “Your fathers- my Kings are in danger. I will not leave them to die.” That heavy word hung over Sam like a thundercloud. “Did you not hear York?” Sam urged. “He said blood will be spilled. What if it's yours?”

“What if it's your blood and you go running to their rescue and get yourself killed?” Sarge tried to smile reassuringly but it just looked sad. “That's the job, Sam,” he whispered. Sam stood up and clasped Sarge's hand between his. “You are my knight. I forbid you to go,” he said firmly. Sarge shook his head. “I am going. If you forbid me then I guess-” He pulled his hand away. “I guess I'm not your knight anymore.”

Sam stood rooted to the spot as Sarge walked away and said a few words to Mason. There was a huge pressure on his chest, as if the world was resting on his ribcage. Sarge just quit. Sarge just disregarded Sam's worry and was fully prepared to die.

_“And if I die, will be dying without having done something important.”_

Sam lifted a foot off the ground and stepped towards Sarge. And another and another until he was so close he could have reached out and buried his hands in Sarge's beautiful golden hair if he wasn't sure it would bring him to tears.

“Sarge. Don't let yourself die with regrets,” he said. Sam could see the realization on Sarge's face and a little color rise to his cheeks. “Please, if you're going to send yourself into danger do me the small honor of finishing what you were saying.” He said it with a sort of morbid hopefulness, a small part of him wishing that Sarge wouldn't go if he said it.

Sarge shook his head. “I'll tell you when I get back, Sam,” he said with a small smile tugging at his lips. Sam frowned. “No. No, Sarge, please. I want-” he choked back the tightness in his ribs. “I need to know. If you don't come back-” Sarge reached out and touched Sam's cheek, stroking his thumb over his jaw. “I will come back. And I'll tell you then.”

Sam leaned into Sarges hand and closed his eyes. He didn't believe it. Sarge was strong but- Maybe he just didn't want to believe it. Sam reached up and tugged the silver ribbon from his hair. Sarge watched it fall in deep brown cascades over Sam's shoulders and over his hand. Sam wrapped the ribbon around Sarge's wrist and tied it securely. He took Sarge's hand and kissed his knuckles delicately. Sam met Sarge's eyes and saw so much tenderness that it melted the ice blue to the color of the northern springs. His cheeks were flushed with color.

“Come back to me,” Sam said with firmness. Sarge nodded silently and almost flinched when Mason put a hand on his shoulder. “Are you ready?” he murmured and Sarge opened his mouth. “I-” he started then looked back at Sam. “I'm-” Sam raised his eyebrows and gave Sarge his full attention. “I think I'm in love with you, Sam.” And with Sarge was gone.

Sam swore he could hear the sound of glass shattering as his heart broke.


	15. Chapter Twelve | In which no one is immortal and the narrative drastically shifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is more to this story than one or two people.

Sarge felt the wind rush past his face and a strong grip on his arm. His stomach had taken up residence in his feet and he didn't have the guts to open his eyes yet. After so suddenly confessing to Sam all he wanted was to curl up and pretend he hadn't heard. Mason’s hold on his shoulder hadn't loosened. If anything, it seemed like he was digging his fingernails into Sarge's skin. With some effort, Sarge opened his eyes and immediately squeezed them shut again.

He hadn't expected the ground to be _so far away._ After a beat his mind caught up with him and the only thought running through his head was ‘how are we so high up?’ Sarge felt his way to Mason’s hand and froze. It wasn't a hand. It felt dry and almost scaly, like a hawk’s foot.

Oh.

That explained the sound like giant bird wings beating in the air. Sarge tilted his head back, away from the ground, and peeked through half-closed eyes. The form of a massive black hawk loomed above him, its feet gripping onto his shoulder like he'd slip right out. Which, considering how unbelievably fast they were going, seemed like the truth. It took Sarge a second to internalize all this. Mason was a magician with the power to… transform into a very large, very fast hawk, it seemed. Sarge was beginning to resent all the magicians around him and the fact that it seemed he didn't hold the same power. His ears became deaf to the wind whipping about his head and he simply let Mason take him, still not brave enough to give the ground more than that first passing glance. He just had to make it to the palace, then he could be back on solid ground.

 

It took King Leonard twice as long as it should have to get into the throne room. Caboose had no trouble with it, being his usual friendly self. It didn't help that he was wearing Valhalla’s chestplate and the guards recognized him as a royal knight. Leonard, on the other hand, tried telling the guards that he and Grif knew each other, even that he was Sam's godfather but none of them believed him.

He had to resort to desperate measures. Slipping around a corner he focused his magic energy and materialized an identical copy of himself. He'd always been quite fond of his magic. It was helpful for playing tricks on people and, in this instance, slipping by unnoticed. He sent one of his copies back around the corner to confront the guards again and while their backs were turned he pushed open the door and slid through, dematerializing the copy as he went. It shattered into tiny blue shards of glass at the bewildered guards’ feet.

Once inside he shot an acrid stare at Caboose. “Thanks for that,” he said vaguely. Caboose just waved. “You're welcome,” he said. Leonard sighed and turned back to Grif and Simmons, sitting in their thrones. “It took me fucking forever to get in here. The guards didn't know who I was. What's up with that, Dexter?” He demanded, throwing his hands in the air angrily.

Simmons frowned, turning to his husband with a pensive stare. “Why are you so hung up on making it seem like you don't know him?” he asked. Grif waved his hand in the air. “Because he's a dipshit and I don't need everyone knowing that I'm acquainted with him.” Leonard crossed his arms and cocked his hips. It always worked on everyone else. “You made me Sam's godfather.” Leonard said.

“And announced it to the kingdom.” Simmons added.

“I think you're lying to yourself, Grif. We're friends.” Leonard uncrossed his arms and smirked at Grif. Grif shook his head and smiled back. “Hey, go suck a dick, Church.” He flipped him off with a good-natured smile.

“Ooh, I do hope you don't mean me,” said a voice behind Leonard and for a split second he had to make sure it wasn't him that said it. Leonard whirled around to come face to face with Epsilon. He was wearing a smug grin and recklessly swinging a small hand axe around. Leonard winced, stepping out of range of the weapon. Epsilon had always had a thing for flashy methods. An axe? Really? It was a bit out of his league, neither of them had the balance or dexterity to actually use one yet here he was. Leonard glared at his brother and stepped back again, bumping into Caboose. He quickly found the knight’s hand and held on tightly.

“I mean, I won't object, either one of you can. Doesn't really matter to me,” Grif said, effortlessly masking his rising panic. Epsilon snorted, glancing down at the huge, round wooden table in the middle of the room, which was covered in an orange and maroon tablecloth. He swung his axe and embedded it into the table, ripping through the tablecloth and splitting the wood. “You're funny. Now be a good boy and kindly hand over… hmm, what was it? Oh, yeah, control of your kingdom,” he shouted to Grif, making stupid little grabby hands, Leonard noted. He could never be professional, could he?

“Technically Simmons is in charge,” Grif rebutted, nudging Simmons with his elbow. “Oh, fuck you, Grif. You're just as much the king as I am,” Simmons said, elbowing him back. “Awww! You love me!” Grif crooned, leaning over and bumping his forehead against Simmons’. “I tell you every day, of course I love you.” Simmons said, finding Grif's hands and intertwining their fingers.

Epsilon tapped his foot on the ground impatiently. “Yeah yeah, true love, can we get on with it?” Simmons turnes sharply towards him and opened his mouth. Epsilon stopped him. “You're going to ask what my plan is. Okay, I'll do you the honor,” he said. He began pacing the room “Sometimes, siblings, for instance a super popular twin brother, can drive you crazy. They have all the love of everyone in the fucking world! And you know what I hear every day? Oh, Leonard’s so handsome and smart! I look exactly like him! I have the same intelligence, trust me, I've checked. I don't see what they find so amazing about him,” Epsilon said, walking around the table and flicking Loenard on the forehead, which he earned a slap to the arm for.

“Why can't I have my moment in the sun? Why can't I rule a kingdom just like him?” Epsilon turned to the kings and snapped his fingers. Grif's eyes fluttered closed and he slumped in his throne, chin falling against his chest. Simmons gasped. Leonard let go of Caboose’s hand and nudged him towards Grif. “Get him to the infirmay,” he urged. Caboose nodded, surprisingly serious and trotted up to the throne to gather Grif's limp form in his arms. Epsilon stood with his hands on his hips as Caboose passed tham, planting a kiss on Leonard's cheek as he hurried by.

Epsilon waited until Caboose had left before he cleared his throat dramatically and continued. “And so I thought, ‘why not put these magical powers to use?’ I want a kingdom, I'll have it. I want to be loved and admired?” His face darkened and he lunged at Leonard, snatching at his wrist and slamming his hand down on the table. Leonard's eyes went wide and he squirmed under Epsilon's grasp, trying to free himself. Epsilon's hand swept over the table towards the axe. “Done.” Leonard could hear Simmons hyperventilating from where he was frozen to the spot.

“You're insane, Epsilon. You can't make people love you,” Leonard hissed through gritted teeth, though his whole body was racked with tremors as he tried to pull his hand away. Epsilon held on tighter grabbed ahold of his axe, yanking it out of the table. “Uh, I've been doing it for years, so yeah I fucking can.” He brought the axe down again with a sickening crack and Leonard let out an ear-splitting scream that echoed through the halls as a searing, white-hot pain tore through his arm and surged through his body.

 

* * *

 

Sam felt some remorse, but not too much, at having tricked the magicians. He knew, however, that they would not have allowed him to return to Blood Gulch if he had told them his true intentions. They would be anway. The castle was safe enough, when they woke up no harm would have come to them. Aside from mild head trauma. Sam didn't know many ways to knock people unconcious. Thank god North labeled all his crystals or Sam wouldn't have ever known which ones were power dampening and which were power enhancing. He just hoped they would work on Epsilon.

Sam knew a shortcut through the forest, one that would take him off the beaten path but cut the travel time to the palace in half. Hopping on North’s beautiful white horse armed with a sack full of magic crystals, he set off towards Blood Gulch to save his fathers and Sarge.

When he finally arrived at the palace gates Sam sprinted towards the doors and pushed them open. The palace was dead silent, which lit a few warning lights in Sam's head. As he padded through the halls he noticed more and more guards and servants passed out on the floors. Sam kept to the less frequented halls and made his way towards the throne room. He could hear muffled sounds coming from inside, a few of which sounded like metal against metal.

Sam put his ear to the throne room door, hoping to get a better idea of what he was up against. He could hear Leonard's voice- no, no, that was Epsilon. Leonard wouldn't call Simmons a sad excuse for a king, let alone a human.

“Run along now, we wouldn't want Leo here to die, would we?” Sam peeked through the tiny crack in the door and spotted Sarge, standing in the middle of the room with his head held high and an axe against his throat. Epsilon was holding it, of course, staring down at a crumpled heap of blue cloth on the ground next to the table. There was a dark stain on the tablecloth and a growing pool of blood at Epsilon's feet.

“My king, please take Leonard to Dr. Grey, I beg you. He needs care and he will not get it in this room. You have the chance to save him now,” Sarge was saying and Simmons nodded frantically before gathering up the cloth- but that was an arm and a tuft of black hair- Sam drew back from the door when he realized it was Leonard on the floor and his blood at Epsilon's feet. He clenched his jaw and peered into the room again, waiting for the perfect opportunity. Simmons was stumbling down a corridor, presumably towards the infirmary and Sarge was still standing stock-still with both his hands out in the open above his head. No way to get to his sword without getting an axeblade in the esophagus.

Epsilon removed the blade from Sarge's throat suddenly and stalked a few paces away from him. “So,” he prompted. “You come here trying to save the kings and only end up witnessing by idiot brother get what he deserved. Bad luck, isn't it,” he said with faux sympathy. “You're a menace, though. Feisty, won't give up unless I've got an axe ready to chop your head off.” Epsilon turned on his heel and stared at Sarge. “I know what you're thinking. ‘Epsilon, if you have such powerful magic, why not use it all the time?’ Well, obviously, magic takes energy to use.” Epsilon held up his axe and examined the blade.

“And energy requires food. So I'm off to find the kitchens! Then we'll continue our little talk.” He got close to Sarge again and tilted his chin up. “You're interesting, little knight. I'll take care of the kings later, but you? Let's see where this goes, huh?” He patted Sarge's cheek roughly and turned to leave. “Don't leave this room or I will not hesitate to kill you!” he called after him. When Epsilon was out of sight Sarge let his shoulders drop and fell to his knees, breathing heavily.

The door creaked open behind him and he turned sharply, only to leap to his feet in alarm. “Sam!” he whispered. “What are you doing here! It's not safe!” Sam slipped into the throne room and immediately went to Sarge. “You can't just leave after saying something like that,” he said honestly. Sarge blushed. “I was hoping you didn't hear,” he mumbled.

“Why?” Sam asked. “Are you ashamed?” he wondered aloud. Sarge shook his head. “Not exactly. I just know that it's a futile endeavor,” he said. Sam tilted his head down to meet Sarge's eyes and whispered “nothing about it is futile, Sarge.” Sarge's face lit up for a second before the clang of metal on stone jolted him back to a defensive stance. Epsilon was slamming the flat of his axeblade against the stone walls and grinning maniacally at Sam. “Uh oh, what do we have here? A sneaky little prince come to save his knight! We can't have that! And to think I was about to sit down and have a nice meal with you, Sarge!”

Epsilon charged at them and Sam barely had enough time to leap out of the way before Epsilon's axe was swinging through the air. Sarge sidestepped the attack and drew his shortsword, finally feeling as if he could get the upper hand. Epsilon ignored him though, going after Sam instead and after he watched his prince hop backwards onto the table and duck under the swinging blade, he growled in his throat and shot forward, aiming his sword at Epsilon's hands, hoping to make him drop his weapon.

Epsilon was ready, however, and Sarge's blade only struck the handle above Epsilon's hand as he spun around, leaving Sam standing on top of the table, inching away from the bloodstain that was seeping into the wood. “My brother lost his hand, how would you feel about losing your tongue?” he shouted, dodging Sarge's attacks. Sam was frowning at the exchange, wondering why it all seemed so wrong. That's it, Sarge is going easy on him, Sam thought. He doesn't want to end up killing Epsilon. Sam understood the sentiment, he didn't want to have to kill him either but- but if Epsilon had cut off his own brother’s hand, and Sam shuddered at the thought, then they couldn't let him get away unharmed.

Sam started to pull the tablecloth up, folding it in his hands. If he could just make sure Epsilon was incapacitated then Sam could bind him with the crystals and they could figure out what to do from there. Sarge was still occupied with trying not to die and Sam saw his chance when Epsilon stepped back and ended up right under him. Sam let the cloth go and fall, draping over Epsilon and blocking his vision. It reminded him briefly of a trick Felix would take him out to play on the stray dogs when they were young.

Epsilon yelped, dropping his axe and struggling with the huge tablecloth, trying to get it off his head. Sarge gave Sam a grateful glance and tackled Epsilon to the ground, pinning his arms to his back and holding them there. “Let me go!” he yelled, trying to shove Sarge off him, but to no avail. Sarge quickly found the edge if the tablecloth and pulled it over Epsilon's head so he could at least breathe. “You fucker, let me go,” he growled but Sarge just shrugged. “No can do. But I can get this cloth off you and handcuff you so you dont try anything,” he said even as he did just that.

Sarge didn't want to, but Sam's hair ribbon was the only thing around he could use to tie Epsilon's hands. He'd get real handcuffs later. Sam watched as Sarge put his knee against Epsilon's back and let go of his hands for a moment to untie the ribbon around his wrist. And in that moment Epsilon reached around and slid the knife out of Sarge's boot. He pushed off the ground and threw Sarge off him, rolling over and lashing out with the knife.

Sam's mind moved faster than his legs, he stood watching as the knife moved through the air and he couldn't do anything. It was too fast, he was too slow, everything was wrong because Sarge shouldn't have left and he shouldn't have tried to face Epsilon and nothing should be so compli-

The knife landed between Sarge's chestplate and his backplate, right under his arm. His breath caught in his throat and he leaned to the side, collapsing to the ground.

Sam saw red. He ran at Epsilon, grabbing him by his shoulders and sending him to the floor with the force of his attack. His head hit the stone with a _thunk_ and his eyes drooped closed. Sam allowed himself one split second of relief before he hastily opened the sack of crystals and wound them each around Epsilon's wrists.

After he was sure that the man wasn't going anywhere, he turned and went to Sarge's side. He was struggling to keep his eyes open and was holding the knife in his wound, trying to stop the blood flow. “”Tell me why, Sam,” he whispered. Sam knelt down next to Sarge and let his knight lean against him. “Tell me why it's not futile to love you.” Sam let out a breath and rubbed Sarge's shoulder. “Because, Sarge,” and he looked Sarge in the eyes, “One with eyes such as yours could craft the stars,” he said. Sarge smiled, his hand lifting to settle against Sam's cheek. The last thing he saw before his eyes slid shut was Sam smiling back at him.

Then everything went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay i kinda regret making epsilon the villan instead of temple oops


	16. Chapter Thirteen | In which our story concludes and opens new possibilities

When he awoke, Sarge was in the infirmary with a bandage wrapped around his chest. There's morning light streaming through the curtains and a soft pillow under his head. If not for the quiet sobbing to his left he'd have thought it to be a quite agreeable way to wake up, injury not included. Sarge turned his head just enough to see Caboose, sitting in a chair three sizes too small for him, clutching Leonard's left hand like it was the most important thing in the world. His other one wasn't attached to his wrist anymore, Sarge noticed with a grimace. His wrist stump was bandaged thoroughly and Leonard was glaring at it like his hand might materialize if he tried hard enough. Caboose had tears streaming down his cheeks and was mumbling over and over again something about being so so sorry. Sarge felt a pang of sympathy for the two.

Sarge glanced around the room, taking in his surroundings. His gaze finally landed on Sam, sitting next to his bed with his head resting on the mattress, one hand placed carefully on Sarge's leg. Sarge smiled, a tiny smile only for himself. He tried to sit up but it only made his chest hurt more. Sarge recalled the feeling of the knife entering his body in vivid detail and he shuddered at the thought. He cursed himself for letting Epsilon get the drop on him like that. He should have been paying more attention. Sarge frowned to himself, the feeling of resentment only being dulled by the fact that Sam was waking up now, his hair sticking to one side of his face.

“Good morning,” Sam said, giving Sarge a smile full of relief as he stretched his arms above his head. Sarge leaned forward as much as his injury would allow. “It's morning already? I've been out for a whole day?” he asked, worry creeping into his voice despite his efforts. Sam nodded. “Everything is alright, don't worry. Epsilon has been taken care of.” Sarge glanced over at Leonard, who had caught his gaze. He stared at Sarge for a second before turning away.

“King Leonard doesn't deserve that,” he mumbled. Sam shook his head. “No he doesn't. But this isn't about him,” Sam said, gently taking Sarge's hands in his own. “This is about you. You came back to me.” Sarge chuckled. “Technically, _you_ came back to _me,_ ” he said with a wink. Sam colored. “Yes, well,” he squeezed Sarge's hands, “I couldn't stand to let you go on your own.”

Sarge exhaled. “Thank you, I don't think I could have done it without you,” he admitted. Sam smiled. “And I can't be without you either. Sarge,” Sarge looked up from their hands and into Sam's eyes. “Will you be-” He paused. “Well, my…” His eyes swept over Sarge's face. “Will you be my boyfriend?”

Sarge started to laugh, big and loud and full of life. Sam sat in silence and watched as Sarge threw his head back. When he finally calmed down, Sam was looking at him with a frown. Sarge smiled, trying to assuage his concern. “Sam, don't look at me like that, of course I will.” He leaned forward and rested his head on Sam's shoulder. “Of course I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can not tell you all how happy I am that this is finally finished! I tend to enjoy open endings, so I hope it was satisfying. I have had so much fun writing this, even with my five month break (y'all remember that hehe). I'm definitely going to do more with this AU in the future so look out for that, including Grif and Simmons' backstory, yay!
> 
> Thank you all for reading this until the end! I love and cherish every one of you, my dear readers. ❤️❤️❤️ Thank you for commenting and leaving kudos or for just making that hit counter go up. You all are what make me keep going! Have a happy Christmas, or if you don't celebrate that, happy holdiays, or if you don't celebrate anything happy December and New Year! Let's all make 2019 so much better! ❤️❤️❤️

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, do you want to draw something for one of my fics? If so, just do it. I'd absolutely love to see it! You can hit me up on Tumblr @the-rvb-writer but I'm not on that often so I might not see it. Alternatively, you can just put a link in the comments and I will scream over how beautiful it is before putting it in the fic and screaming about you in the notes. ❤❤❤


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